#taash smut

[cookie-crumblr]

✨💕TAASH X F!ROOK READER💕✨

CW: SPOILERS(not really but just in case)(this is after the gods are dead) F!Reader, reader has a vagina, reader refereed to as she/her, names for reader(taarala, ), We call Taash daddy in qunlat, brief dry humping, finger suckin, fingering -reader receiving, brief cum play(if you squint? maybe normal look? its not much), Short, not proof read, definitely needs a pt. 2,

MINORS DNI!!!!

Theyre sat reading something, brows furrowed in idle irritation. Head on fist, and elbow on knee. Even slouched so far down, their form is hulking.

“Youre so fucking hot,” You approach with a certain swaying of your hips you know mesmerizes them.

“Pfft,” They let out some air prying their eyes from your form to glance at the wall, they fall back on you instantly however, “And you've still got that one track mind”

“Is this a bad time?” you ask.

“Never for you.” They look at you through a quizzical brow, theyre annoyed you could even ask them that. “Sit. Taarala.” They lean back,and brashly pat their man-spread thighs.

Their legs are looking like the most welcome seat you've ever laid your eyes upon.

You sit down slowly, and arch your back seductively, “Yes, Atha”

“What?” Their voice echos with a deeper aggression you haven’t really heard them use towards you. They slap whatever they were reading down roughly.

“Oh… You know… father… In… Qunlat—Im sorry, i just thought—” You spin in their lap to face them, needing to see into their eyes while you explain.

“I know what it means,” They click their tongue,“Say it again.”

Steam erupts from your ears, even though this was along the reactions you wanted you were still caught off guard.

“Mm” A growl rumbles in their chest, “Taarala. I said, call me that again.” Their hands paw at you.

They grab up your sides, and squeeze your body in their massive hands.

“Ah-Atha” You breathe, as they coax it out of you by kneading your sensitive body. Their mouth lowers to the crook of your neck and they growl deeply, before ripping away fabric that was in the way, then taking a deep inhale of your flesh.

Their hips push up as they take in your scent, bouncing your body up on their lap.

They grab at you harder now, their motions filling with an overwhelming desperation. Their teeth are clenched around your shoulder in an instant. “Atha!” You shout at the sudden burning sensation!

Their hips buck into you, to which your back arches, and you slide along, saddled and riding along with their movements to try and feed your own gnawing pleasure with some contact.

They can smell you becoming too hot to bare anymore, and they release your neck with a long exhale.

“Come. Closer.” They pull your body against theirs as if youre weightless, the seams between you dissolve in your new proximity.

Their body is molten against you, as the fire builds in their chest.

Your own hands rake down their sculpted body, anywhere you can.

They rip away the remaining fabric blocking your body from them, they spread your legs and push you back toward their knees with a frustrated sounding grunt.

Big blueish fingers find your lips and probe for entry, your mouth falls open for them, and you suck willingly.

“mmm Taarala, youre so good for me,” Their smile and words fill your heart with a proud warmth.

After sucking for a second you feel them starting to tug their fingers back and you release them, opening wide for them to inspect.

Their dark, lidded eyes admire your mouth and body, then they take your lips with theirs aggressively, nipping at your bottom lip. You kiss back and reach up to their face, caressing their jaw and chin.

A shiver strikes you harshly when their still wet, but now cold fingers find your lower entrance, they lay them flat against your hole.

You rock your hips begging them to enter you with your body.

“Mmmm” They sigh into your mouth, their forehead knocks lightly against yours. “This pussy is mine, Taarala,” They growl, and their fingers dip inside you at their words.

As they slide into your cushy insides, their fingers remember you as well as tongues remember their favorite lyrics, a dreamy sigh escapes them, to which your brows peak.

The way they enjoy your body, as much as you enjoy theirs, and they never even try to hide it from you.

Their brash nature seeping into every aspect of their being, and you loving them for it.

They add another finger and your whine as you feel it slipping in with the other two, “Your so big atha,”

“I know, Taarala, I know, youre doing so well, taking me like this,”

Your legs spread even wider, wrapping around the ouside of their legs, your ankles clinging to their rock hard calves, and your hands behind you on their kneecaps, bending your back on them deliciously.

The mix of them swiftly pumping their fingers inside you and their dark eyes utterly devouring your messy just-for-them visage, and them growling, “Fuck,” they say airily, “keep moving your hips, just like that, Taarala” It has created an explosive combination, youre coming as they repeat, “go ahead, come for me, Taarala,” They almost whisper the last word, their want for you quieting them as they focus.

You kiss them, forcing your whole body against theirs, which they happily return, and hug you tight.

Then you climb down and get situated in between their legs and paw at their thighs, You lick your lips and bite your plush bottom one, staring up at them like a good little rook.

They smirk, their one hand finds your chin to hold and they dip their slick coated fingers into your mouth again, “Suck.” They command, and again you gingerly suck, enjoying your own flavor this time on their pretty skin.

They let out a rumbling sigh.

“Fine, but you asked for it,”

[demigoddessqueens]

sex & love with the veilguard

—-Headcanons for each of the companions

PAIRINGS - Neve, Taash, Emmrich, Davrin, Harding, Lucanis, Bellara x Rook

NSFW 18+ SMUT

Masterlist 12

Neve 🩵

𝑠ℎ𝑒 cannot fathom that one such as you has fallen for her, and vice versa, but she would never give you up, service top who wants to see how good she makes you feel

Taash 💙

they are a protective lover who is also be a certified neck kisser and is a glutton for the extra attention you always give

Emmrich

𝒉𝒆 adores all of you wholeheartedly, shamelessly moaning into your kisses and pulls you closer when your legs wrap around him

Davrin

𝒉𝒆 lives in the moment, always headstrong and passionate for you, who grabs at life with you, grabs onto your hips and worships your chest when he can

Harding

𝑠ℎ𝑒 feels safe in getting to love you, having avoided two cataclysmic events in your lifetime, it makes up for the gentle hours into the morning when you make love

Lucanis

𝒉𝒆 might as well worship the ground you walk on, hopelessly devoted to you and always stares in adoration at the noises you make when you’re on top of him

Bellara

𝑠ℎ𝑒 adores you and looks forward to a life built together with you; in the more romantic aspect, I can see her being more a switch and exploring whatever desires you both have

[dogg0melette]

ok i see all of the “does DAV suck” discourse the REAL question is…

…who would be what in an ABO AU

I AM ASKING THE REAL QUESTIONS OKAY

anyway my hc is taash, emmrich, davrin, and neve are all alphas. bellara and harding are betas. lucanis is an omega (YES I SAID IT)

solas is an alpha. probs all of the evanuris are. maybe mythal and elgar’nan are like special alphas?

my rook ingellvar is an omega whose greatest joy in life is beating alphas in arm-wrestling competitions bc she’s fucking yoked

[taashyvashedan]

~Cottage. Quiet.~

[ Taash x Harding Fanfiction ]

Title: Cottage. Quiet.

Pairing: Taash / Lace Harding

Rating: 16+ (For now)

Summary: After a long and arduous fight against the likes of Ghilan'nain, Elgar'nan, and Solas--Taash and Harding spend a summer at her childhood home in Ferelden.

--

With the help of some amazing beta readers, I finally have finished the first chapter of what I plan to be my first attempt at a long fic! I'm really looking forward to working on this one. I've been wanting to explore their connection and play around with it more -- as well as write the famous Ma' Harding.

If you had a good time and want to see more as it comes out, please leave a kudos, comment, or subscribe. This kind of thing keeps me motivated.

It's tough being like one of two writers for these two out there. We can't all be possessed Spanish men (no hate, don't at me).

[pavus]

i was going to romance emmrich with my current playthrough, but i'm currently going insane about taash so uh. putting the old man on hold again for now, i think.

[soupandsorcery]

I am so torn on romance for Mags! I'm going based on vibes, and it's so hard to pin down what would be best.

I was pretty sold on Emmrich because it does seem like a very Mags thing to end up with a necromancer, and they both share a curiosity for the Fade and magic and everything. Plus he's got that hot soft dom thing going on that Mags is going to be feral for once he works out what it all means.

But then fucking Lucanis keeps turning up and reselling me on him! There's just something about the idea of Mags belonging to Lucanis and Spite that I really, really like. Not sure how much of that will be in the game (probably none) and how much I'll have to create with headcanons and smutty fanfic, but I am here for it.

So here I am, trying to make a decision.

[yiddishfisting]

it is honestly incredible that DATV managed, of the four games, to be the most racist, while also very clearly striving to be the least 'problematic'/upsetting

[bossuary]

Neve + Taash tho... *eyes emoji* quick story featuring me, a useless chucklefuck dingdong...i had this sitting in my drafts, kept coming back to it, thinking man o man i gotta tell @softatlas / @carrotsweater about this hot piece of ref. like this is right up kim's alley, ifyaknowwhatimean. and guess which mensa-member just noticed from whomst she reblogged the fuckdamn post in the first place?

new yuri image for desperate lesbians just dropped

[momofantas]

i miss my fic oomfs on here idk who to send betas to anymore

[ellie-writes-games]

Spite Wants To Set A Flame

Lucanis (and by extension, Spite) have been helping Bellara with her romance novel. Flowery language and smut metaphors lead Spite to some surprising conclusions.

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗ prev Part 8 of Burn After Reading banter series next ╚══════════════════════════════════════════╝ Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi | Have a request? Part of an on-going series of fan-writings. See the full Masterlist here.

As someone on the autism spectrum, I remember struggling with interpreting metaphor as a young person A LOT. As soon as it was introduced in Veilguard that Bellara was writing some smutty fanfiction, the first thoughts I had were "Oh, the neurospicy gang is gonna struggle." (Mainly Taash and Spite.)

This is fanfiction written by me, @ellie-writes-games. These are NOT actual screenshots from the game. Peace, love, and mad props to the DA writers.

[heylittleriotact]

⚰ＷＩＰ ＷＨＥＮＥＶＥＲ⚰

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

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

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

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

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

Under the cut because it is ✨EXPLICIT✨

𝒱𝒾𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It feels so good though…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[cookie-crumblr]

💕✨TAASH X F!ROOK!!✨💕

Orlesian Rugs~

I do not own DAVG OR TAASH.

!!!!MINORS DNI!!!!

CW: SPOILERS(all the way to the end of the game, like you have to kill the gods, This is like right after, and the blight is GONE.(hate that sheet frfr)), Also Taash’s hero of the veil spoilers(rivain side), you picked draconic romance, !F!Reader, reader has a vagina, reader reffered to as she/her, (Also just found out about medieval strapons, soooooo ((if thats even true)), BUT, strap on usage(taash wearing), hair grabbing/pulling, threats of violence, breaking the law and using rooks name whatever crime that is, spitting a little fire, slightly OOC because theyre MOODY and i do not own DAVG or them, oral on the strap on, deep throating, gagging, Lord of fortune rook, kinda public sex?, dacryphilia, p in v, names for reader(Rook, Taarala, little mate, good girl, ), light choking, not proofread!

No real song rec’s, but i was listening to Powerglide by Rae Sremmurd on repeat XD

A low growl reverberates from behind you, you feel their breath on your neck, and their solid muscle arms slowly and deliberately encircling your mid section. “mmm, Taarala…” They inhale the scent from the crook of your neck and squeeze you to their chiseled body.

Your face is hot! Only they can get these reactions out of the world saving Rook.

The purple hued Treviso market is bustling around you, and the merchant looks to you expectantly, ignoring the impatient dragon behind you.

Youd be lying if you said you didnt like it though.

Out of a little dark blue leather coin purse you grab the allotted price for Neve’s oranges.

Their hand travels up a little too far to stay in public.

You wiggle your way out of their strong grasp.

“Lucanis was right, she IS going to discover scurvy if she doesn't eat more fruit.” You say, trying to diffuse their tension.

“MMmmm! Taarala.” They say with a stomp, causeing a couple stares.

You give the couple a charming rook smile and theyre right on their merry ways.

“What Taash?” you say with a raised brow, and crossed arms. A smile playing the edge of your lips, but you hold it back with all your might.

“There,” They point to a dark corner behind you with a purple tent, and a tarrot reading sign. “Now.”

Even though they gave you a head start they still grab you by the back of your scalp, and guide(more like force) you forward. That twisting violent tangle of knots forms in the pit of your stomach and blooms outward.

Youre wet for them in an instant, and you would be squeezing your legs together so tightly right now, but they arent relenting.

They growl close to your neck behind you, you know they smell the arousal on your every atom right now, heck they probably could this whole evening.

“Fuck,” You whisper breathlessly.

They fling open the beaded curtains to a dimly candle lit pillow filled tent interior. It some how feels bigger on the inside.

The shop owner doesnt look surprised at the sudden and brash intrusion.

She smiles while putting the cards on the table, “upright Lovers, upright 10 of pentacles,”

“even hotter.” You say.

“Listen lady, you know what Adaari means?”

She shakes her head, to which Taash spits a flame and stomps it out, before it does more than singe the immitation Orlesian rug.

“It means i breath fire, so get the hell out, or ill torch your pretty tent.”

“Ill get the guards,” They try to remain under a calm demeanor, but you can see even knowing this would happen it still scares them.

“Pfft, get’em, you think they’d do anyghing against Rook over here?” They shake you around like a lil ragdoll.

“I-Im sorry, Ill just be out then…” They start to go with a bow, and their back to the door.

“Come back in a couple hours, we’ll leave the place better than is now, promise.” They say, and the person finally turns and leaves with a small smile.

“Now you. Shokra toh ebra. Ive had to smell you all day! but you insisted on all these errands,” They roll their shoulders and crack bones down their upper vertebrae. “Then you have the NERVE, to be bratty to me at the end there?”

They start unfastening golden buckles and leather straps until one familiar dark blue leather strap comes into view.

You salavate at it’s massive size, just like its fantasticly huge owner, whom you love dearly.

“Down. Crawl to me. Now, Taarala.” They command impatiently. Rightfully so.

Youre down on all fours in a picosecond as if blood magic were controling you, but no its just your unquenchable lust for this person.

You crawlto them, just like the said, and they cup the underside of your jaw, “Good girl, it seems that you can still follow orders.” They growl in their throat.

They smile, their beautifully darkend eyes mesmerizing you, “Now take me all the way into the back of your throat, Rook” That smile growing even wider by the second.

You lick your lips before quickly taking on the endeavor to get that delicious thing inside you anyway you can.

you had started to remove heavier bits here and there, and making everything easy access for them.

“Ff-fuck Taathh” You gag around their cock, tears spilling over your cheeks. They are the onlt person in this univer that sees you like this. That you LOVE to be seen by like this. You fingers are coated in your own slick from just a second on your body.

“No touching yourself.” Your fingers shake as they withdrawl from your desperate and needy cunt.

“Youve been good. Good girls get rewarded.” They grab your chin and pull out of your mouth, they let it rest against your cheek and you give it lazy little lovey kisses down their shaft.

They sigh out and roll their shoulders and neck again, “Youre so fucking hot, Taarala. grrr!” they knock you backwards pinning you down to the fake Orlesian.

“You’re going to take me like a good little mate, my Taarala, Mine.” They growl out the last bit of their command and flip you onto your stomach, raising one leg and bending it at the knee.

You feel yourself open up for them in this position.

They rub the tip deliciously slow against your slit. Up and down between your folds, its torture at this point “Just put it in! Please Taash!”

“I like it when you beg me.” They say, exhaling smoke from their nostrils as they close their eyes in ecstasy, and their head rolls back, “So good for me,” Their free hand that isnt wrapped around the base of their thick cock, traces your spine, your back arches to their touch, electric shocks reverberate across your sides going outward from their contact.

You anticipated their entrance, but you always forget the stretch, “Oooooff” your moan turns into a great breathless groan, as you accommodate them.

“Good little mate,” They pet your back gently, as they slowly hilt themself deep inside you.

You shiver all the while.

You might’ve been able to stay like this, they definitely love you at this angle, but you just cant help wriggling, arching your back further in jagged movements.

They chuckle dreamily, “You want me that bad, Taarala…”

“Always,” you say a little strained.

“I guess I should give you that reward then.” They pick you up by your hips and force you onto all fours, ass up to them, and head down towards the rug.

They push back into you in a swifter motion this time, getting so deep inside you, you whimper when it smacks the end of your insides.

They start pushing into you and rotating their hips maddeningly whenever theyre at the thrusts’ apexes.

“F-fuck, I love you” the words fall out in an emptying breath.

They churn up your guts along with your swirling lust and devotion to them.

They inhale the air deeply, “You smell incredible,”

“All for you,” A hot pulse courses through you, they start slamming harshly into you, to where your body jostles forward, “Ahh!” You whine, but your so pleased!

“Good girl, only Taarala.” They growl, and push into your squelching hole, you can feel every inch as they continue their motions.

Theyre soon bending down, covering your body with theirs, you feel their mother’s horn necklace on your back, and then their hand wrap around your throat lightly, but tight enough to heighten your coming high.

They growl into your neck before biting where your shoulder meets it, you cry out as waves of crashing pleasure wrack throughout your body.

If they werent in a very flammable tent theyd be roaring fire, but they contain themself for now. Their own high imagining how full you are of them comes in a blinding flash.

You both lay together in a tangle of heavy limp limbs for a minute to collect yourselves.

After helping eachother clean up and get decent, you head out of the tent and toward a real rug vendor.

“Well get her an actual orleasian, make up for before.” They hand a small sack of coin to the vendor without counting. The vendor opens it and motions for you to pick any of them.

“You pick,” They slap your ass and you jump forward.

You get the lady a nice dark purple one with a golden geometric and stary pattern, and Taash rolls it up and throws the thing over their shoulder as if it weighs nothing.

“What? Want my other shoulder?” They smirk.

Your face feels hot as you head back to the tent…

You still owe them.

[jainydoe]

Delirium

summary: She’s an angel, he’s a dog. Or, the confessions of a white tenured male.

tw: smut, mentions of death, violence

In his dreams are mausoleums. Rows sky high of those he’s trounced. Boys and girls from Schoolyard’s Past. A stranger from a conference who murmured about his adornments - Volkarin is just so … tragically nouveau riche. 

Johanna. With her hair and her laugh, laid dead with a frozen smile.

He keeps them all. Collected. Strolls along the cool, clean corridors and considers their carcasses. Malleable. Under his thumb. Under his spell, should he wish. Ripped from rest and compelled to answer any inquiry that may flit across his mind. He’s built a recent wing. Young men and women and. Taashes. Tucked neatly and filed amongst the masses. 

Then there’s her. 

For her, he’s built an atrium. A private temple where she’s kept in glass. Perpetually moonlit. Preserved. Perfected. In his dreams, he lifts the top of her enclosure open, rushes a breath across icy cheeks. Hours pass and he stares. Confesses secrets. Fears. Wants and desires. He thinks of the different ways she could die and how each would draw and quarter the soul until he’s scattered so distantly, he’d be impossible to make whole. Her, hung in a frozen suspension. Mouth agape and rigor mortis set in. His face would slot so carefully under her breasts, and he’d keep her there, midair, just to ache and sob into her ribs. Or her, burned and charred, body fruitlessly attempting to stay with him. Resisting the path to ash. He’d grip the air, magic rising the fire higher and higher, screaming into its lashings in a jealous rage. That it could consider itself worthy enough to touch her. To take her. Consume her. It takes a few weeks of knowing Rook before he’s begun desecrating the other crypts in his dreamscape. Every gentleman, lady and tramp who accost her with their gaze, with their booming want, earn a place in the Hall of the Damned. He keeps them in an area far from her tomb. The moonlight doesn’t grace their nameplates. When he imagines their spirits pleading in the dark, scared and confused, he sleeps like a babe. 

The waking hours are cruel and unusual. At home, every chapter of the day is one to celebrate. The mornings, ripe with expectation and promises. Brunches. Afternoons of discussion and lounging and napping and laughing and dinners overflown with debate and passion. He misses conversation. The type that leaves you buzzed and amped. He catches it sometimes with Bellara or Neve, but Rook leaves him itchy and ready in a way he hasn’t been since his boyhood. If she were a girl in a club and he were a boy with two drinks, he’d give her that smile that always works and kiss her hand to go the extra mile. He’d tell her he knows a spot in the Memorial Gardens and play the gentlemen who won’t offer to fuck her right away because modesty will have her gagging for it. But this is the real world and he’s pushing fifty. The closest he can get to romance is pouring her wine at the dinner table and laying on the pet names like he’s got plenty to spare. He’s started pampering himself. On days where she’d rather have the company of the boy or the other boy, he spends hours rubbing creams on himself, languidly dressing, steps out onto the balcony in his room and thinks about what she’d say if she saw him in just his dress socks, hair ungelled, five o’clock shadow shading his bone structure in that way he’s been told is haunting. He hopes the look he’d give her would haunt her. Etch itself into her memory and burrow into the marrow, to the point where she couldn’t ever feel pleasure again without thinking of his. Remembering the way he’d whisper her name before coming undone at the seams.

Tonight isn’t anything special - not in the grand scheme of things - but he lets the perfumed oil drop onto the paper-thin dip of his inner wrist, taking a deep, deep pull of the leather-booze-sweat-and-musky combo that he knows will drive her mad. He watches her in marketplaces, eyes running over the twinkling bottles of imported goods too precious to touch. Curved glass, inviting and seductive, begging to lay on flesh. She has caked blood on her chest and makes sure her steps are less heavy, presence less imposing. The salespeople offer, nonetheless, smiles wide and hands outstretched, and he feels his shoulders tighten as she wipes her hands along her armor, picks at her skin, begins the fruitless endeavor of trying to dig the last bits of dirt from under her nails. 

Sorry, I’m afraid we can’t afford anything today. 

A lie, though one she might not realize she’s telling. She’s a scrounger. A scrappy, makeshift trader. He wants to ask how she can keep affording all the sleekest, strongest armor and charming home adornments, things that make their situation less of a shit-fuck and more of a happy-accident, but he knows she’ll never tell. I’ve got to keep some secrets, she’d smile, impish and nymph-like, an invitation for him to peel off all her layers and share a secret he’s kept for this whole entire time. One that’ll keep them whispering to each other all night. In the darkest hours, he lets the mind wander to flushed lips, reddened limbs, reddened teeth from the caked blood he’s licked her clean of. She’d be disgusted and he’d be drunk, covering her in every shiny thing of his he has to offer. 

Marketplaces are a dangerous setting for him. Tempting in their quick releases. I saw this and thought of you, and I saw that and thought of you, I’m practically always thinking of you, do you think of me, how often, how deeply, how about you show me, right here, right now, before either of us have a chance to think twice. 

Wearing the oil is the little thing he allows himself, a pathetic tether to the fantasy he’s let play out. The Rook he’s created from stolen glances, lopsided conversations, dinner jokes and morning tea and midnight-solo-hand-fucks where he can ramble all the things he loves about her and it isn’t unwanted, it makes her cum - that Rook would smell the fact he’s wearing their scent, and make a point of having his sheets smell only of her for the next week. She’d be furious. She’d be deliriously in love. He should make his way to dinner, already. He’s expected. Who will ask questions no one wants to answer if Emmrich is spiraling all on his own?

“So, after all that, what did you do?”

They’re trading adventures amongst themselves, this medley of gritty, young things. Stories of near-death and past lives they’ve left behind - it helps distract from the. Well. Emmrich doesn’t share much because when you work in death long enough, you learn only the other people who work in death care to talk about it. He’d hoped Lucanis would be a shoulder to gab on. He couldn’t have been more wrong. He makes a note to visit the Necropolis soon and only realizes the table has gone silent when Rook is all cheeks ablaze and girlish hair-tucking. Her eyes dance around the table, avoiding Emmrich, entirely. He probably would, too. People who don’t contribute don’t get the benefits of worthwhile attention. A lesson he teaches his students all too well. There are too many other, more important things to fail at here, though. Oil and restriction are the two indulgences he’ll allow, he’s decided. And another glass of wine. Dalish? Huh. Good for them. 

“Well,” she continues, “there’s more than one way to convince a guard you’re better off unchained.”

Harding’s guffaw shakes the table and he almost lights a necrotic pool on her chair. Taash is slapping Rook’s back and Neve is laughing into her glass. By the time he’s back in his body, aware of the room, of his senses, Rook is the only person sitting at the table. He can picture it so clearly. Her, chained. Stretched. Arms above her and belly exposed, a deceptively innocent cross of one leg over the other. A pretty please and an I promise I’ll never commit another crime ever again, I swear. He thinks about gripping the hair at the top of her neck and asking how she can be so cavalier about life, constantly toeing the edge. When she regales the dinner table with stories of old friends, people she used to know, he’d imagine meeting them, bringing a bottle of shockingly Dalish wine, something local and real and so down-to-earth. He’d turn up the charm, make them all laugh and later that night spread her legs, his chest against her back as his fingers dipped down, tracing the edge of her underwear, asking if he’s performed to her satisfaction. It’s miserable. It’s juvenile. The fact that the thing that drives him over the edge is imagining himself as a fixture in her life. Her charming companion. Her smart and funny guy that buys her chocolates and treasures and knows that when he touches her right there, she has to shut her eyes because he’s just too much. He’s taut. He’s on edge. And it’s because he knows she’s lying. 

“Heading to bed, Emmrich?”

He smiles, rising from his chair and crossing over to the fireplace. He reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out the gold cigarette case he’s kept on deck, nowadays. Smoking used to be something he considered a young man’s game, reserved for the insanity one feels only in their twenties. He’s realised that feeling is a long-forgotten acquaintance whose not only decided they’re moving in, but that they’re marrying Emmrich and pregnant with twins - Starvation and Enslavement. It’s too late to do anything about it. The nursery’s all picked out. 

He crouches down on one knee, inching closer to the fire until the flames nearly kiss him and he can puff out a bit, igniting. “Forgive me, my dear. Forgot my lighter on my desk.” He can lie, too. For a moment like this. He knows what he looks like, sharp and wolfish and the fire paints him a dashing devil instead of a foaming beast. This little move is one of the few tricks he learned from the only other girl who invoked The Acquaintance. Come on, Volkarin, don’t be such a coward. Fucking popinjay. “That’s quite a tale you told, earlier. The one with the guard and chains.”

Her eyes are on him as he rises and leans his shoulder against the mantel, controlled and poised like a former ballerina.

“I’ve lived an exciting life, I know.” 

He grins. “Remind me, what did you say you did, exactly?”

She knows he knows. Years of training students keeps one’s finger on the pulse of casual deception. She crosses her arms and lifts her chin in the particular way she does when she wants to appear leader-like. “I blew him. And while he was seeing stars I locked him back in my cell and got away.”

He twitches. His nose burns. “Charming, as always, but I’m afraid that’s not quite what you said earlier. You said,” he uses the cigarette to point at her, “that you took him on your cot and locked him onto it. I remember for two reasons. The first,” he inhaled, “I found it puckish and creative. The second,” he exhaled, letting the smoke twirl away from them both as the tip of his thumb started tracing his mustache, “I know for a fact they don’t keep cots in those jail cells. Too comfortable. A distraction from contrition.” He looks at her shoes. Her hands. Rolls his gaze up to her eyes. “Did you really have to sleep your way to freedom, or was that just a show for our more easily entertained party members?” 

She’s enraged and embarrassed, but not too much to point out the obvious. “I don’t know, Emmrich. For a guy who remembers to bring a handkerchief to battle, I highly doubt you happened to forget your lighter on your desk.” In a flash of nerve and steel, she slaps his chest, feeling into the pocket of his vest and slipping out the matching, gold zippo. “Do you think I’m someone easily entertained?”

He looks at her nose, her chin, the bottom of her eyes, counting each lash as he counts his breaths. Lets himself smile. To relax her. To challenge her. To beg her. “I’m afraid if the likes of prison guards and roguish younglings can keep your attention,” he sighs, tossing the rest of the cigarette into the flames, watching it become engulfed, “then I couldn’t possibly attempt the conquest of your favor.” He knows what he’s just admitted. Feels it in the tips of his fingers as he wills them not to dance along his thighs or itch at his neck. Be calm. Be kind. Be careful. 

“What would that look like? If you,” she’s shivering, “If you did attempt?”

“Likely frightening.” That makes her laugh. He’d do anything to make her laugh again. But he’d really do anything to shut up that laughter, afterward. Spin it into something breathy and relentless. He wonders if this is what it feels like once your mind is lost. Thinks of cellars and bugs and the stench and rot of insanity. He’d look so perfectly appropriate in creamy cotton, pulled tight, all to keep him from the frenzied need to keep touching himself, no matter how much it hurts, because the ghost of her memory is most present when he’s wanton and weak. It’s not a bad outcome. He would gladly take the isolation of the fractured mind, shattered glass reflections all of Rook, 

Rook, 

Rook, 

Rook, 

over the pounding loneliness he’s known all too well. 

He watches as she looks at her hands, dirt chunking from under her nails, and she smiles something light and tempting. Maybe she wasn’t lying about that guard, after all. Who wouldn’t unshackle a maiden so sweet? He doesn’t care if she’s a siren. He’ll hold his breath until he chokes. “Truth be told, my dear,” here goes nothing, “to vie for your affections, I’d probably pester you with questions, act a fool and ignore any indication you might feel the same in the hopes you’d eventually leave me to perish in peace.” It breaks his heart to watch her frown. Don’t pity him. Don’t look at him. He’s not a wilting lily, he’s a dying ember who only needs the air from her lungs to lift him back to life. He was making peace with death, before her. It’s something he’ll never forgive her for. 

She lifts a hand to his jaw, delicate and rough, thumb running under his cheekbones. “Well, if I were to be in a similar position, perhaps I’d darken your doorstep every day, lose my nerve if I catch your eye too long and fashion myself an expert lover in the hopes it’d catch your attention.” 

She wants him and he’s a makeshift dragon tamer. Scrappy. Scrounging for any hint of interest. His desire is an archdemon he’s been holding back with shoelaces. “My dear, if your intentions are sincere, I fear what may become of me.” 

A girl possessed, the blacks of her eyes blow wider as the sharp of her teeth begin glinting in the firelight. He’s choking. “You should be afraid.”

Once they’ve crossed the threshold of his door, she pushes him against the slab, lips shiny and breath shallow. Her fingers are clumsy with youth and he’s bumbling out apologies for the mess, for the cold, for anything that might make her leave. He wants to bring her by the fire, warm her up, take his time with his meal. He hears a rip in his dress shirt and considers offering a proper spanking, but before he can assume the position she declares “Get on the table.” He cocks a shoulder and tilts his head. Smiles. Mind blank. 

“I beg your pardon?”

Her strength should come as no surprise and he regrets his yelp when his thighs scrape against the stone. He’s in briefs and briefly wonders if this is where she kills him. Lets him bleed out, a martyr, her sacrificial lamb. He’d keep his eyes on her as the lights go out, glad he could finally perform to her satisfaction. When she yanks the last bits of cover off of him, the cold much more biting and mocking, he nearly crosses his legs and asks if she’d like to join him for dinner sometime. 

“Lie down and spread your legs.” He laughs. The look on her face says to shut up. 

If she’s impressed by his figure she makes no show of it, stripping herself down and, like a lightning rod, gaining electric power with every item she removes. Once she’s as bitten by the cold as he is, puckered and goose-pimpled, she steps up onto the stone, between his legs, staring down at him. His mouth waters. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you.”

“Tell me you need me.”

“Darling-”

“Say it.”

He feels himself getting harder. “I need you.” “I’m going to kill you tonight.”

“I know.”

“And when I’m finished, you’re going to thank me for it.”

“I will.” 

She wastes no time warming him up. Her mouth is boiling on the tip of him and he angles to scrape the back of her throat if just to put her on the back foot. In response, she grips his hips, nails digging into the bone as she lowers and lowers and lowers until his toes curl and throat tightens. She’s a harlot and a harpy and his heartbeat is pounding through his head. Hands are pathetic and past conquests no match for her pretty little mouth. Her drool is dripping everywhere and he’s parched. “Let me taste you.”

“No.”

She scratches at his inner thighs, the soft little points where he’s hairless and shallow and the chills running down his scalp make him feel almost feverish. Good. He hopes he infects her. He hopes the little bit of poison that’s soon to fill her cheeks will spark delirium, binding her to him, his kiss the only antidote. Her hair is so shiny and he’s seeing stars. “Kiss me.”

She pops off and grips him like it’s a weapon. “No.” The back of his head thunks in anguish. 

“Please, I’ll do anything, I’ll say anything, please, my darling, if I could just,” With a final lick he cums, shiny and sticky on his stomach, matting his hair. She leans over him, commanding and resolute. A demon. A creature of evil. A girl who will haunt him forever. 

“Take me to dinner.”

“I will.”

“Buy me something nice, too.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll fuck you when you prove you’re better off unchained.”

“Thank you.”

That night, he dreams he’s trapped in a glass casket and she sits in the pews, smiling at him. He’s never slept better.

[chromunist]

Honestly very bizarre to me how people single out lucanis’s romance as being so bad. I haven’t seen all the romances but from what i have seen it is not noticeably different in content. Taash was 3rd most romanced and definitely has the exact same content (its just more sexual).

Like they can never get their story straight if the problem is the amount of content or lack of smut. Probably because if its lack of content you have to crit the whole game (at least more than just luc, emmrich girls seem to be having fun) and not just whine abt him and mary kirby in self-pity as a lucanismancer, and if its lack of sexy you have to acknowledge thats subjective and invalid.

People saying mary kirby is lying abt him being demisexual to cover up bad writing cuz she called him a bisexual disaster before? Like what bad writing? Not having as much content as you want is not bad writing. And you out yourself as not interacting with a lot of acespec people if you think we never default to more common sexual labels for simplicity LOL.

His writing comes off very acespec to me and a lot of other acespec ppl. And not just because he doesn’t rail you on screen in the pantry. In the subtle ways he is shy and reluctant towards intimacy, in the way he romance is his favorite genre but he struggles to see himself in a relationship in real life. This man would rather listen to you talk then have a round 2 ! like please this is not a lie! He has 0 horny energy.

Ppl just need to admit that the romance they planned on before the game came out wasn’t to their taste. I get thatd be disappointing but to act like it is objectively bad and call the writer, who has written one of the most iconic bioware characters, a bad writer and a lier is actually insane

[writingjourney]

𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞, 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥 || 𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡

He has become a steady presence in her life, the extent of their feelings an unspoken bond that thrums like magic between them. It is easier to feel than to speak the words themselves, to face the unknown that lies ahead. Or: About a bloody nose, almost kisses and a dance with death itself.

pairing: Emmrich x fem!Rook || Rated E, 18+ MDNI

content: 16.5k words, POV third person, mourn watch mage!rook, pining, slow romance, hurt/comfort, minor injury/blood, mild angst, age gap, wingman!Manfred, lots of fluff, love confessions, smut (v fingering, piv sex, sex in a coffin, softdom!emm)

Masterlist – Ao3 link

“You, Beloved, who are all the gardens I have ever gazed at, longing.” – Rainer Maria Rilke

Missiles are flying in every direction around her, a spectacle of colours, her other senses occupied with laboured grunting, the clash of steel against steel, arrows swishing past her ears. Rook dodges, left and right, back to the left. The chaos of battle feels like home now, her body alert, strung tight like a bow. It is a practiced dance, though she is new to who she is dancing with today.

When the missile hits her it is entirely unexpected, an enemy she somehow overlooked hitting her from outside her field of view. Before she can locate them she loses her footing, the ground suddenly approaching her face and then it crashes into her. Or, is she falling? The pain is a sudden beast, spreading from her nose to her teeth and into her eyes. Her ears ring and she loses her orientation, unfocused swimming in a restless sea.

Instinctively Rook rolls to her side, avoiding another blow. As her vision clears, she feels the warmth of blood pooling from her face, its metallic taste landing on her lips, a wetness that spreads into her hair, her clothes underneath her light armour. She shoots at the enemy before they can strike again, effectively sending them backwards. It gives her enough time to overwhelm them and dominate the fight once again.

Quiet settles in the aftermath, pierced by the occasional grunt of pain as the life leaves some of the wounded. Rook stares at her hands, blood-stained, wet dirt and sand added to the mix. Her head hurts so she carefully sits down, trying to calm her breathing.

“Rook!” It is Lucanis, sprinting towards where she’s perched on the very stone that slashed her face. “Is it yours?”

“I think it might be,” she says, wiping at her cheeks.

“Nosebleed?” he asks.

No, she can feel the blood oozing from the wound. “A cut, I think. Or maybe it’s both, considering.”

“Wow, you look rough,” Taash says as they finally catch up, their own body smeared with blood that is definitely not their own.

“Let’s get you back to the Lighthouse,” Lucanis says. “I already know someone who will give me a stern talking to about this later.”

“What do you mean?” Rook asks, wiping her hands at her already ruined armour.

Lucanis chuckles at her attempt to stand, ignoring her question. “You sway like a drunk.”

“I feel like one. Though I wish the reason were your Antivan wines and not… face-planting on the stony beaches of Rivain.”

“You did a good job,” he says softly.

She allows him to help her up, not agreeing nor disagreeing. Her sense of balance returns the longer she stands, though the way to the Eluvian still feels like a journey through the entirety of Thedas. Perhaps, for once, she’ll be able to get some proper rest tonight.

✦ ✧ ✦

Her nose is swollen to twice its size by the time they reach the Lighthouse. It hurts to breathe, hurts to move, and every time Rook thinks the cut stopped bleeding she manages to tear it back open again. Ideally, she would have loved to avoid any of the others’ attention in order to clean herself first, get rid of the evidence of what happened. She knows she must make a ghoulish sight, blood-covered face, sticky hair that’s glued to her just as blood-soaked clothing, her voice so nasal that she’s hard to understand.

She doesn’t factor in that the others might have gathered in the library. When they reach the top of the stairs, slow step after slow step, she is first met by Harding’s curious gaze. Her eyes widen as she jumps up from her spot on the sofa.

“Rook!” she calls out.

Everything happens all at once. Rook hears more than she sees, feet on hard stone floor, voices talking above each other, layered sounds that make her panic briefly since she is still a little dizzy and sensitive. She’s guided into her chair and someone sits down on the table in the middle of the room. Once she is safely in one spot her eyes find back into focus and she sees Emmrich perched in front of her.

“Rook, dear,” he says calmly. “What happened? Where is all this blood coming from?”

“Uh, my nose? It’s not as bad as it looks.”

His intense focus hardens the lines on his face and she thinks he looks not just concerned but almost angry. It is an odd look on his usually so gentle features, betraying the gravity with which he perceives the situation. Suddenly she feels like a bother, not the leader of this team who should be in control of the situation.

“Let me examine it, then,” he suggests. “May I?”

She nods and he gives orders to Bellara, might she fetch a wet cloth, this and that tincture from his desk? Then he tells everyone to give them some privacy which finally takes the pressure off her lungs. Rook feels uncomfortable being fussed over, especially when they have so many more important things to do. Emmrich, in particular, is always so enthralled by his research and his work with Manfred.

“I must stink,” she says. “Perhaps I should bathe before we–”

“No, dear, I must determine whether your injury requires any more advanced healing spells or potions. Do not fret about it, please. Now, you must hold very still, I do not wish to hurt you.”

She does as told, leaning back so she can keep her head steady. Emmrich cautiously reaches out, pressing down close to her nose, retracting his hand when she gives any signs of pain, then moving to another spot. Bellara reappears and he begins to gently clean her skin, careful taps with a warm cloth around her nose before he wipes away the blood from the rest of her face.

“Thankfully, the bone does not appear to be fractured,” he says. “However, the swelling is severe and the cut, which caused most of the bleeding, might leave a rather nasty scar since we did not treat it immediately.”

His tone suggests that he is quite unhappy about this, about not being there as it happened. Rook keeps still as he further cleans the wound, sensing the healing magic that radiates from his hand and into her skin. He looks lovely in its glow and she feels better right away, though he cannot mend it perfectly without consulting a practiced healer.

“I leave you at the lighthouse for once and immediately come back injured.” She smiles weakly, trying to dissolve the tension. “This is why I usually ask you to come with me.”

“Do you find this amusing, Rook?”

“I find it amusing that you act like I almost died when in reality I just stumbled after an unfortunate hit,” she quips and, at his rather stern gaze, she adds. “You always look out for me, is what I was trying to say.”

His expression softens, a mild smile tugging at his lips. “I do because you are important.”

“To the team? Or to the Gods? Because I don’t think either of them cares about a disfigured nose.”

“Tsk.” He removes his hand, leaning back to inspect his work. “To me.”

Her heart speeds up, pulse throbbing against her painful nose. Emmrich seems satisfied with his progress and she wonders if he can see how her cheeks are heating up, not in pain or frustration this time. If he notices he does not let on, turning away to open whatever phial he had Bellara bring to patch her back up. The liquid feels cool, soothing the remaining pain for the time being.

“There,” he says. “The rest will heal on its own in due time. If you make sure to get sufficient rest, that is.”

He raises one eyebrow, the unspoken accusation that he notices her lack of respite. And of course he does, he notices everything about everyone. He said a similar thing to Bellara, it truly does not signify anything more than friendly affection.

Rook smiles, trying to hide the sting of pain that reaches into her heart this time. “I will. Thank you, Emmrich.”

✦ ✧ ✦

She can’t remember the last time she slept through so many hours. Rook wakes to the squeaky noise of the door hinges, then a loud but friendly hiss to announce the arrival of her skeletal friend. She blinks into the candles in front of her, then carefully sits up, as always with a hint of lingering back pain from resting on the uncomfortable sofa. Or perhaps her whole body is aching now that it’s recovering, remnants of the poorly executed fight yesterday.

Manfred is standing in the doorway, waiting for her to allow him to step inside. Emerald eyes sparkling in the glow of the aquarium, he holds out a tray to her.

“Oh, hello, Manfred,” she says, smiling at his delighted hiss when she speaks his name. “What do we have here?”

He chatters again as he walks up to her, placing the tray on the green leather with surprisingly steady hands. A pleasant smell of herbs and spices floods her nose, so welcome that it feels almost soothing to the pain that’s still haunting her face.

“Tea and a hot meal?” she asks, her stomach grumbling at the sight of fresh bread, cheese, a bowl of stew and some cut fruit. “Did Emmrich send you?”

Manfred gives a sound of confirmation and Rook feels her heart warming, thinking about Emmrich in the kitchen, preparing a meal just for her. But perhaps he did not, perhaps this is just what everyone is having right now. She slept so long that it might well be time for lunch already.

“You know, Manfred, he is a really good man,” Rook says, feeling the warmth of freshly-brewed tea in her hand as she picks up the cup. “He always looks out for everyone. Makes sure we eat and rest, shares his vast knowledge with us. We’re lucky to have him.”

Manfred chirps happily, no doubt agreeing, and Rook slowly and carefully eats her food, every movement of her mouth sending bolts of pain through her nose. It was Emmrich’s Corpse Whispering that left the strongest impression on her initially, something she had only ever heard of before, but he has been such a calming and steady presence ever since. She feels like she can be herself around him and they get lost in their conversations on necromancy on more occasions than she can count. Most importantly, though, they work well together on missions, somehow attuned to each other, to the magic they share, their culture. It is why she feels quite lost without him. So lost, apparently, that she slammed her head into a rock.

Belly full and limbs warmed, she offers to accompany Manfred back to the kitchen. He seems displeased at the notion, wanting to finish his task on his own, so she only follows him as far as the washroom. Another warm bath to soothe her aching muscles has to wait until later, though, and she soon finds her steps carrying her to the Eluvian.

Travelling so seamlessly has been a luxury, one that Rook would not want to miss. She still does not feel quite comfortable enough to go back to Nevarra on her own, though she would much prefer the flora in its gardens for what she has in mind. With Emmrich it is easier, a man so respected that his mere presence smooths out the waters.

Arlathan Forest, however, is beautiful in its own right. Rook greets the veil jumpers as she passes their camp, stops by the merchant to see if they have anything of interest, but remains empty-handed as she strolls into the woods. Leaves crunch underneath her feet, forced to take it slow as she is, and she can hear the animals faintly in the distance as they go about their own routines, the song of a bird here, a rustle in the foliage there. Every breath she takes is clean, her bruised nose eagerly absorbing the smell of moss and wood and magic.

It takes her a while to find what she is looking for. The plants have taken over the ruins, leaves so large that she could wrap them around herself like a blanket, roots protruding upwards to her knees. It is perpetually sunny, the air thrumming with magic, and the flowers she picks tickle her fingertips when she reaches out.

On her way back to the Eluvian she once against stops by the merchant, picking up a vase she eyed earlier. It is the colour of freshly cut lavender, matching the white and purple flowers she collected. The sweet smell of pollen spreads in the air when she places them inside, curving her lips into a smile at the simple beauty of it. He will enjoy them, she is quite sure of it.

“Someone special?” the merchant asks, cradling the gold in their hand.

Rook smiles. “Indeed. Thank you for the trade.”

The merchant hands her back one of the coins, a generous discount. “You’re more than welcome, Rook.”

✦ ✧ ✦

She pauses just shy of the door, hands trembling under tight-strung nerves. He could read this gesture in a myriad of ways, of course. Rook is aware that she could be misreading him as well, that her interest might not be welcome and his politeness obscuring any distaste he might have for her advances. It is, perhaps, the one risk that takes her the most courage to face.

She knocks and he bids her to enter right away, as he always does, recognising her by the unique way in which her knuckle kiss the door. As so often before she finds him bent over his desk, quill in hand, working on his correspondence, his diary or any one of his research papers.

“Ah, Rook! I was wondering when you’d feel well enough to pay me a visit. Tell me, has your nose improved at all? And–” He stops as he notes her standing there, awkwardly hovering by the door, flowers in hand. “Oh, darling Rook, are they for me?”

The words have her stomach flip, her increased heart rate aggravating the pain in her nose. She flinches a little, her face doing all sorts of acrobatics. “Ah, yes. I wanted to thank you for taking care of me– my nose, I mean.”

“But– Oh, please don’t tell me you went out to fetch these all by your lonesome? Dear Rook, you are recovering from an injury. A severe hit to the head could lead to all sorts of lingering after effects. I must insist that you ask someone to accompany you on such pursuits, no matter how noble the cause.”

“It was just a short trip to Arlathan, Emmrich, really. I feel quite well again.” She places the vase on one of the few free spots on his cluttered desk, books and documents covering most of its surface. “I am admittedly not much of a botanist but…”

“They are as lovely as the person who picked them,” he says rather smoothly, standing from his chair to make more room on the table. “Lilac is my favorite colour, how did you know?”

“Oh, I just thought they were pretty, to be quite honest.” If she did not know any better she would think her face is inflamed, considering how much hotter it feels with every passing second. “What I was trying to say… Thank you for having Manfred bring me some food earlier, for taking care of me. It was most welcome… and a little unexpected.”

“I thought you might need some sustenance after all the exhaustion,” he says. “I am glad to hear that it was to your liking, Rook. The cheese in particular is a favourite of mine, I had the chance to sample it when we were visiting the market in Treviso.”

“Emmrich, I–” Her voice breaks, then, and it must be her over-eager pulse or perhaps the room around her suddenly starts spinning. One moment she looks into his kind eyes and the next she has to slam her hand onto the table, just barely missing the vase she so carefully set down.

Emmrich is on her side of the desk within seconds, slotting his hands underneath her arms to keep her upright. Pain fizzles behind her eyes like a thousand blinking stars, an agonised little moan breaking from her throat.

“Oh, darling, you overexerted yourself,” he states. “Perhaps it is a concussion, after all. Can you hold onto me, Rook?”

She tries, she really does, but her body seems incapable of following the demands of her mind. Emmrich guides her to his chair, preventing the worst of a fall, and promptly takes her wrist, long fingers pressed to her pulse. She sighs, his skin surprisingly warm.

“Oh my,” he whispers. “Your heart rate is abnormally high, Rook. Are you in pain?”

“Not more than when I woke up.”

“Can you locate it for me, please? Where does it hurt?”

“Ugh, everywhere. I am sore, my nose–”

Emmrich’s lips press together tightly, his moustache twitching as he holds back a reply. Instead he stabilises her neck, one hand tilting her head back, the other sending a pleasantly warm energy through her sternum that soon spreads in her whole body.

“I know, I should have rested,” she admits, eyes closed. “But… Emmrich, what I was trying to say–”

“Rook,” he interrupts and she blinks to meet his gaze. “I am acutely aware that your own safety is at the very back of your priorities. But I feel that I must broach this topic now. Simply put, your health and safety are paramount, not just to the success of this mission but–” He trails off, his gaze melting into one of affectionate concern. “When you came back, covered in blood…”

“You seemed really calm,” she says.

He chuckles but his expression remains serious. “It was required of me, considering that none of us knew how gravely wounded you truly were. But I will freely admit that I was anything but calm on the inside. I could live very well without repeating this experience ever again, so if you could do me the favour and promise me– promise me– to better look after yourself.”

His words are tinged with such genuine care that she finds herself trying to nod, though his hand prevents her from moving her head. “I promise,” she whispers instead, allowing him to finish relieving her pain, the green glow of his magic separating their faces like a veil made of light. His hand is only hovering above her breast bone and yet it feels as though her heart is trying to leap out of her chest and land in his palm.

“Now, what is it that you were trying to tell me, dear?”

Her throat is dry and blocked up, the moment stretching out so long that a reply becomes superfluous. Emmrich does not seem to mind, not when when he is so focused on his task. When he eventually removes his hands, waving away his connection to the fade under a faint choir of jingling bracelets, she has already forgotten what she was trying to say.

“Do you like the flowers?” she asks, eventually.

“I adore them,” he replies, a hand gently placed on her forearm and his expression is so tender that she could weep with how much he means to her. “You know that no gifts or thank yous are ever required when I help you, don’t you, dear? Though I much appreciate the kind gesture.”

“You love flowers,” she just states.

“I do quite enjoy them,” he agrees.

They are not speaking of flowers, Rook knows this, and yet as he gently leans in she thinks she must be dreaming. This time, she is light-headed for all the right reasons, closing her eyes and sensing him, the faint smell of burnt candles and soap, his fingers curling around her arm, thumb pressed to her pulse even now. The air between them tastes like the calm before a storm, charged, electric, and he takes his time as she waits for him to close the gap.

A knock breaks the silence. “Professor? Do you have a moment?”

Rook blinks her eyes open but Emmrich has already withdrawn, moving to stand and brush the dust off his knees. He nervously sways from left to right, tugging at his sleeve, his vest.

“One moment, Harding!” he calls back.

“I should go and get some more sleep,” Rook says. “Just like the professor ordered.”

Emmrich smiles, holding out his hand for her. “Quite right. Can you stand?”

“I think so, yes.”

She feels steadier on her feet, his magic having cleared most of her sudden unbalance, and she avoids taking his hand if only so she doesn’t faint again. When she passes Harding in the hallway she ignores her curious gaze. It takes her a while to fall back asleep, the faint taste of iron lingering on her tongue.

✦ ✧ ✦

The air is potent with the smell of food and spices, though dust and debris seem to never quite settle as they make their way through cobbled, beaten streets. Minrathous is still recovering from the attack but life has, somehow, returned to a vague sense of normal. Neve navigates them through food stalls, street vendors, makeshift tents and shops, anything so people can offer their wares in exchange for much needed coin. Rook is filling every plate she can see, some coins here, some coins there, and she catches Emmrich doing the same, adding a little more each time he passes. He buys some crystals he doesn’t really need, a newspaper, some new gloves for Manfred.

They have been trying to gather information on the Venatori, meeting with Neve’s contacts, and decided to spend more time in the city after that. It’s risky, to a degree, since they are definitely on their radar now, but they have not had the chance to go out in a while.

“Back to the Swan?” Neve asks. “I could use a drink.”

“I don’t see why not,” Emmrich says. “Rook, what do you think?”

It’s the last thing she hears before a deafening groan vibrates in the air and the top half of the house in front of them comes sliding down, the ground shaking underneath their feet. The building crumbles into the sea below, dust and sea foam spreading like fog to cloud their vision. People shout, hurrying away from the scene, and Rook feels a hand tugging at her sleeve, trying to hold on as the earth continues to quake.

“Venatori!” Neve calls out.

They lose her amongst the ruckus. Rook grabs the arm that clings to her, running into the opening of a narrow alley she saw just seconds ago. The air clears with every step and she finally concludes that she’s dragging Emmrich behind her who grasps her arm so tightly that she fears it might bruise. They hide in a crevice between two doorways, just obscured enough by the walls around them.

“I am relieved I did not lose you,” he says, so deep in her personal space that she can feel his breath on her hair. “Are you alright, Rook?”

“I’m fine but we should wait until they’re further away.”

“I agree.”

Rook’s heart rate stays on a dangerously high level, a lightheadedness taking hold of her. Emmrich is so close that she can feel his warmth radiating off of him and when she glances up she directly faces his mouth. His lips are pressed together, though his skin carries some of the fine dust from the collapse. She fights the urge to reach out.

“Incidentally,” he says after a while, and she observes his lips as they form the word. “Now that I see you from up close I must ask, how is your nose? Is it still tender?”

“A little,” she admits, instinctively reaching for it but retracting her hand before impact with the bruising. “It’s more of a dull ache now, like I have a weight resting on it that makes it hard to breathe.”

“The swelling has gone down significantly. If you allow me, I can–” He pauses, his hand hovering in mid air. “Inspect it, again.”

“Please.”

He removes his gloves, tilting her chin up with a slightly sweaty finger. It is hard to focus on anything but his face, his freckles, the little twitch of his moustache as he focuses on the task at hand, his brow furrowed to bring out the usually so gentle lines on his forehead. Only when he lifts his other hand, the one that usually jingles with gold when he moves, does she manage to avert her gaze.

At first, the contact barely registers, but as he gently presses against the bridge of her nose, Rook hisses. It is a sound of surprise, not as much of pain, even though the sensation is rather unpleasant.

“Forgive me,” Emmrich murmurs, and, entirely unnecessary, follows the line underneath her eye, then back to her nose and again on the other side. “It is healing well on its own, I must say. I don’t think I have to use any more spells to speed up the process.”

She smiles, watches as he so patiently traces the soft skin over her cheekbone. “So, this is just an excuse to touch me?”

His eyes widen, finger retreating, but he quickly recovers and moves back to her nose. “Oh, of course not, it is your well-being that is of priority.” Then, after a short pause he adds: “However, I will admit it is a pleasant side effect. Unless– I do not wish to overstep–”

“Emmrich,” she interrupts. “I like it when you touch me.”

He pauses for but a moment, noting the way she has drawn into herself, speaking the words with confidence but still fearing for his reaction. “Dear, you did not have to risk breaking your nose to tempt me, you could have simply asked.”

She furrows her brow before realising that this is his attempt at a joke. Or... at flirting? A delighted smile spreads despite the pain, the relief of realising that her feelings aren’t unwelcome after all. “I felt that you were too polite to admit that you’d want to, so I had to give you an opportunity.”

“You think your teasing has gone unnoticed, then?” he whispers. “Or your compliments?”

“I was wondering about it since you seemed so hesitant to take another step towards me.”

“Ah.” His smile falters and he glances away briefly. “It is not that I did not have the desire to do so, my dear, but there is still a matter that rather occupies me.”

“What matter would that be?”

“Flattery is certainly one thing, amusing and invigorating. I quite enjoy these playful moments,” he elaborates. “And I do feel flattered by your attentions, very much so, I am merely wondering if they go beyond shallow adulation.”

“I genuinely like you, Emmrich,” Rook confesses, somehow feeling more confident out here, in her armour, hidden away from the world. “Our situation is perhaps not the most fertile grounds for romance. But I do mean every word I say, I would like to get to know you better, Emmrich, see where it takes us.”

His hand unfolds against her cheek, large enough to cover the whole side of her head, his thumb caressing her cheekbone with featherlight touches. “I am delighted to hear that you feel the same way, Rook.”

Gentle fingers comb through her hair, brushing away the dust that has gathered between messy strands. She’s not sure what do with her own hands, wanting to touch but also not wanting to move, not to startle him into stopping.

“I do not enjoy seeing you bruised, my dear,” he whispers.

“I know, I still look quite beaten up.”

“You look lovely, even with your purple nose.”

It’s like his words alone drag the corners of her mouth upwards until her cheeks hurt. Somehow the little distance between them shrinks to a mere blink, the tip of his nose almost tickling hers. And then he leans in and his lips brush her cheek, softly at first, then firmer until she really feels their softness, feels the tickle of his moustache against her skin. Her chest is warm, stomach restless and she smells the faint scent of incense in his hair.

“Beautiful flushed cheeks,” he whispers, voice deeper than usual. “How warm they feel to the touch. Are you shy, darling?”

She could burst right then and there, her heart drumming against her ribcage. Considering it was her who started initiating their sweet talk, she finds herself quite out of words now that he has suddenly kicked his own flattery into gear. Her hands are so sweaty in her gloves that she wishes she had taken them off as well. If she stepped on her tiptoes now she is certain their mouths would touch.

“Rook? Emmrich?” Neve’s footsteps echo in the alleyway. Flushed cheeks and caught expressions, they step out into the open. “Hey, they’re gone. Apparently they knew the building was unsalvageable, tried to gently break it apart but lost control. We found no casualties.”

“What a relief!” Emmrich says.

“Perhaps we should get that drink at the Lighthouse,” Rook remarks.

They wordlessly agree.

✦ ✧ ✦

“So, you and Emmrich?”

Rook looks up from her precariously full plate, eyeing Harding as she sinks her teeth into her ham and jam slam with sides of fresh fruit and cheese. She sat down not before she made Rook her own version of the sandwich and, as so often since the two crossed paths, they like to spend their meals chatting. Usually they fall into easy banter about the different customs between Nevarran and dwarven culture, old stories about their lives before they came here, people they used to know. Rook, so used to these safe topics, chokes on her bread at the sudden change.

“What about us?”

“Well, you know, it’s kind of hard to miss, really, with how you keep whispering and giggling and hanging out all the time...”

“We haven’t even–” Rook says. “It’s not–”

“Oh, no, I don’t want any of those details, if you know what I mean. It’s just… it must be odd, to be with someone who is so much older, right?”

Rook eyes Harding, gauging whether she’s simply curious or opposed. Her friend seems genuine enough, though she can never be quite certain as to her intentions. “Not really? So far it hasn’t been an issue.”

“That’s good! He said a similar thing when I talked to him about it but he was quick to change the subject.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah, you know, we all just want you guys to be happy.”

Rook gives a smile, though she’s not sure that she means it. It has been on her mind, of course, whether it’s a good idea to flirt with an older man, to fall for an older man. But it’s not like she had a choice, not when he exists around her like he was always meant to be in her life. Emmrich sparked into her world like the moon lights up the night sky, a bright star in the middle of all-consuming darkness, beautiful and comforting, life-giving. It is ironic, considering his profession, how she hasn’t felt this alive since leaving Nevarra. He has a way of centering her, making her feel connected to the culture she was so scared to lose, all while he treats her like she’s the most special person in the world. Falling for him was never a choice, it was an inevitable outcome.

The rest of dinner is spent in relative silence, the tension of their conversation followed by a distinct lack of energy to talk. Rook’s day hasn’t gone particularly well, even by current standards, and the exhaustion is settling in her bones like lead. They spent most of it dispelling a band of dark spawn in the Hossberg Wetlands, a task that Davrin and Assan carried if she’s being honest. It took her two hours to scrub off the grime that came with it, her skin still raw and her muscles aching from treading the wet, swampy muck for so long.

After a short break in front of the fire Rook feels drawn to the quiet cold of the library. She sinks into the sofa, grabbing the book she left on the round table earlier, bound in dark green cloth. Quite a while ago Emmrich offered her to borrow any books from his personal collection she deems interesting and she makes use of it as often as time allows. Lately, she’s kept the same book close to her, rereading parts of it, tracing the simple but beautiful cover.

“Rook! I thought I heard you come in, darling.”

Emmrich descends the stairs, alone for once, and she sets the book down, scoots to make room for him. “I just had dinner with Harding. She showed me the recipe she adjusted for you.”

“The yam and jam slam?”

Rook giggles as she nods, such odd words from his usually so polished mouth. “I enjoyed it, the combination is quite unusual.”

Emmrich smiles as he sits down, amused by her reaction. He doesn’t touch, still holding back, still waiting until he can see that she is comfortable with his proximity.

“Did I interrupt your reading, dear?” he inquires.

“I might be too tired, either way. My eyes feel heavier than ever.”

“Might I read to you, then?”

Rook glances up, admiring his side profile, catching his eyes as she realises that she hasn’t relied to him. “That would be lovely, Emmrich.”

He seems delighted, leaning forward to reach for her book. His hand caresses the cover, then his eyes widen. “Oh, but that is one of my very own monographs, dear! It is an introductory work, you’ll find it quite redundant to what you already know. Might I suggest Tretenhoff’s work instead? He has a few compositions that should greatly appeal to your particular interests, something to indulge in for these long evenings.”

“It is not so much about absorbing new information,” she says, running her hand over the gold-foiled lettering on the book’s cover. Professor Emmrich Volkarin. “While I do find your work interesting it is also… a comfort. Knowing that you wrote the words, finding the familiarity in your tone, I can almost hear you speak them to me, your voice, your intonation…”

His expression melts into one of gentle surprise. “My darling, I never knew–”

“I’m so sorry. You must think it silly–”

“But not at all,” he interrupts. “I find it rather flattering, my dear. I must admit that I had no idea that you were in need – or want – of my comfort.”

“I don’t like to admit it.” She avoids his gaze, though he gently takes her hand to stop her from picking at the book, placing it on his thigh. “I am used to juggling everything by myself and that’s how it should be, I take responsibility for what I do so I can hardly go cry about it. I cannot… cannot unload my own concerns or regrets on the team, on you. That would not be right.”

“Rook, might I politely disagree?”

She can’t bring herself to look up, though she knows he expects her to and it would be the polite thing to do. But if she did he might see the tears coating her eyes, gathering at their corners, emotions she’s been burying for weeks.

“How could I, Emmrich?” she says instead. “You see the way Neve looks at me, that she can never forgive me. I have to make impossible choices every day and I have to live with the pain and regret that it brings. If I don’t, who else will?”

“Darling,” he whispers and his fingers curl underneath her jaw, gently tilting her head up. “How long have you been carrying this without saying a word to anyone?”

She need not reply, he knows the answer.

“You carry a burden, Rook, and you carry it gracefully.” A smile curves his lips, filled with all the faith he has in her, with all the pride swells in his chest. “But that does not mean the load won’t be too heavy, at times. I can lend you a hand, if you let me.”

“I think I would like that,” she mumbles, though she feels entirely unworthy, undeserving of what he’s offering to her. “I think for now I would just like you to read to me.”

“Very good. While I do so, I want you to let go of these thoughts, sit and listen, breathe deeply, in and out, slow and steady.” He opens the book and she does as told, leaning back and following the rhythm he dictates. She watches his nimble fingers as they turn the page, the low rustling sound gently interrupting the quiet of the room. “I must admit, I have not picked up any of my introductory works in quite some time. I hope it still holds up.”

“It does,” she assures him. “I’ve read it twice now.”

He releases a sound somewhere between a hum and a chuckle. “Very well, then. I trust a fellow Watcher’s judgement.”

For a while, she follows along as he reads, her eyes tracing the shapes on the page. His voice is always mesmerising, especially when he speaks on topics that have sparked his particular interest, but to hear him reading his very own thoughts, his own theories and ideas and explanations, it brings her more peace than she has felt in months. Instead of the usual excitement his voice bears a calmness this time, though upon discovery of his favourite parts his pitch changes. On occasion he slips, adding revisions, explaining to her what he would word differently now, what insights he has won since then.

Rook rests her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes, and lets his voice carry her away from her worries. Her hand is still laying on his thigh and after a moment she lets her fingers climb down his forearm, fingertips counting the many gold bracelets until she reaches the end. Her fingers press to his wrist, measuring his steady pulse underneath his skin, caressing him until his voice stutters and he has to restart his sentence. When she opens her eyes she sees a thin trail of goosebumps peeking out of his cuff. Her fingers slide further down, resting in the small space between his palm and the edge of the book. He is warm, softer than expected, and she decides to stay there now, feeling the rhythmic pulse of his heartbeat against the ball of her hand.

As Emmrich continues to read she closes her eyes again, thinks about kissing the dimple on his chin, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the dip where it meets the delicate skin of his neck. Everything about him calls to her and even though she’s grateful for how considerate he is she finds it hard to hold back. At first she turns her head until her nose brushes against his skin, then she leans up until her lips meet the spot right below his ear. It is a featherlight touch and yet she can feel him vibrating as a shiver runs through him, ever more goosebumps appearing on his skin.

Emmrich stops, takes a deep breath, and she notes that he’s glancing at her. “Darling–”

“Too much?” she asks.

“No, not at all,” he whispers. “In fact, it doesn’t feel sufficient in the slightest.”

His fingers uncurl from the book and slip between hers until he is comfortably holding her hand. Rook has to smile, painfully wide, his fingers so long that they make her hand look tiny when he squeezes. She can feel his rings, too, warmed from his own body heat. It feels right to press another kiss to the underside of his jaw, feeling a slight stubble against her lips. This time she is more daring, lingering for a moment longer.

“Are you even listening, dear?” he asks softly.

“Here and there,” she whispers.

For a while they stay exactly like that, Emmrich reading and Rook dozing on his shoulder, soft kisses and heavy sighs, shivers and squeezes. He must have finished the first chapter by the time they’re interrupted by a displeased hiss. Manfred walks into their field of view and Rook reluctantly lifts her head.

“Oh, I quite forget the time, Manfred, you must forgive me,” Emmrich says. “Perhaps you could serve the tea here instead? I wish to stay a little longer.”

“You could join us,” Rook offers. “I think we’ll reach the section on wisps soon.”

“So you are listening!”

Manfred hisses happily and departs to fetch the tea. Rook pulls her legs up onto the sofa, settling more snuggly against Emmrich’s side with their hands now resting in her lap and the book in his. When she rests her head back on his shoulder she can feel a rumble of a laugh spreading through him, warming her very heart.

“Are you quite comfortable, dearest?” he asks, so beautifully amused.

Rook hums and closes her eyes. “I have never been more comfortable in my life.”

✦ ✧ ✦

She has been staring off into the distance for a while now, seated on the balcony with her legs dangling off the edge. Her elbow propped on the plinth of the statue of Mythal, she rests her head in her palm, contemplative. Even from here it is hard to imagine infinity. With the Fade stretching out in front of her, an endless expanse right before her eyes, the impossibility of it should dissolve in her mind. However, Rook finds that the contrary is true. The more she sees of it, the more she learns, the less she feels she knows, leading to an encroaching sense that her perception of it is but a weak attempt at true understanding. Despite being confronted with the Fade for most of her life at the Necropolis, despite pulling from it to use her magic, it never quite loses its mystery. The Fade has a way of surprising her again and again the more she finds out, the more is revealed to her through Solas’s memories, the clues he’s scattered around his domain.

Emmrich has been helping her make sense of it, though the reality is that whenever they spend time together she finds it harder and harder to use her brain for research. He’s much better at staying on topic and she enjoys simply listening to him while he draws connections, figures out solutions to her questions, flipping pages in his books to find the exact passage she off-handedly reminded him of. To her delight and despite his interest in the subject matter she finds it easier to distract him as well, though, often without trying. Sitting next to each other reading has turned into her dozing half in his lap, where he forgets to turn the page because his hand is too occupied combing through her hair or brushing along the curve of her knees, sentences interrupted because they can’t help but get lost in the other’s gaze, shy smiles across the room that pull him from conversations with the others.

“Ah, I thought those were your legs dangling so precariously over the balcony.”

She looks up startled, though she can’t imagine how she failed to hear his steps, his bangles jingling as he approaches. Emmrich carries a small wooden bowl in his hand and she wonders if he came up the stairs below her, how lost in thought she must have been to miss him.

“Have you been looking for me?” she asks, scooting away from the edge to face him.

“I thought I would go ahead and cut up some fruit for you, darling. I could not help but notice that you weren’t present during our last meal,” he explains. “With some regret, might I add, since Lucanis took such care preparing your favourite.”

“It’s very sweet of you to think of me,” she says, noting the subtle smile on his lips. “I just– Well, I fell asleep for a few hours after we came back from Treviso which was honestly great since I have not been sleeping well.”

“I must say that I am not surprised, considering that you seem to fall asleep on me the moment I open a book.” His tone is mildly teasing as he sits down next to her, leaning back against the nearby pillar, and Rook knows that he won’t be leaving anytime soon. “Do you know why sleep is trying to elude you?”

“Well, not everyone has a feather pillow,” she jokes, though his concern is welcome, as is the bowl he hands over. Since their conversation about her worries he has been even more attentive as to her whereabouts, her well-being. It is a blessing and a curse, making her fall for him so much faster than she’s used to.

“Your current accommodations aren’t to your satisfaction, then? They seem comfortable enough when I visit.”

Rook feels a familiar heat creep into her cheeks. They haven’t gone very far as to the physical nature of their relationship, though she feels that he knows her more intimately than anyone else. Emmrich is romancing her in the truest sense of the word, carrying her off to the Necropolis for walks through the Memorial Gardens, showcasing his magic to plan elaborate dinners, cooks and skeleton musicians, Manfred preparing tea for them in the familiarity of his quarters while they talk about whatever comes to mind, unhurried, getting lost in their shared interests. He begun to visit her in the meditation room after dinner now, reading to her as he did on the sofa that first time. When he holds her close like that she feels the weight of the day melt away, the only time she can truly let go of her responsibilities in order to rest, and she has a suspicion that’s exactly why he does it.

Rook appreciates that he takes his time with her, that he gets to know the real her. His soft touches reach under her skin, when he holds her hand in his larger one, the press of his lips to her cheek always accompanied by a light tickle of his moustache, his fingers protectively spread on the small of her back, occasionally curling around her to pull her closer. A warm palm on her knee when she settles beside him, fingers drawing slow circles over the bone that nip at her heart. It leaves her aching for him, for more of his touch, though perhaps he’s not even fully aware of what he’s doing. Even now he seems perplexed, at times, when his attentions bear fruit, when she blushes for him, stutters at unexpected compliments or openly flirts back, when she melts into his touch, bestowing him with kisses of her own. He is a confident man who knows of his appeal, and yet it is as though he struggles to fathom that she truly means it.

“You’re very far away, darling,” he notes. “Physically as well as mentally, I suspect.”

“Sorry,” Rook says, remembering the bowl he placed in her hand. Neat wedges of apple, berries and some melon, half a banana that he cut into even slices. Her diet has become much richer in variety since they gained access to so many regions, so many recipes her friends share with her.

“I am not disturbing you am I? If it is solitude you seek–”

“No, not at all.” She shakes herself awake, pops a berry into her mouth that splits into sour juice and tart skin, the barest hint of sweetness. For a while she eats, trying the different flavours together,  berries and banana, the apples some of the best they’ve had in a while. When she offers to share Emmrich only accepts a few berries. Her heart feels warm, not because of the food but because of the gesture, the feeling of being taken care of by this wonderful man who watches her eat like it brings him just as much joy. “Thank you for this, Emmrich. It’s very sweet of you to look after me.”

“Oh but of course, darling. If you are ready for a proper meal I’m sure Lucanis can heat up some of the leftovers.”

“Perhaps later, I’m enjoying your company too much right now,” she says and he lifts his eyebrow, still waiting for her to come to him.

She only scoots a little closer before he grabs her legs and swings them over his, one hand settling on her hips while the other adjusts her knees. When he sits up straighter he gives a pained little grunt and she’s acutely aware that they’ve been sitting on the hard floor for a while.

“We can move inside if your back isn’t happy,” she whispers.

He gives a tsk, like he wants to let her know what utter nonsense that is, and she can’t help but smile a little at that. Once he’s settled he holds onto her tightly, squeezing at the flesh of her hips, pulling her ever closer. “Now, do you want to tell me why you’re sitting alone out here, dearest?”

She has to look up to meet his eyes, his scent flooding her nose, his warmth spreading through her limbs, and with him so close it’s hard to remember what occupied her mind all day. “A feeble attempt at… escaping everything, I suppose.”

“Escaping?”

“I slept but… it’s not the kind of sleep that makes you less tired, that takes you away from the world so you can rest. Solas– It seems I can’t escape for even a few hours and when he’s not there I dream– if I manage to fall asleep at all, instead of wasting hours with the attempt.”

Emmrich’s hand begins to stroke along her upper thigh, fingertips pressing into the tightness of the muscle. It grounds her, as does the gentle, understanding nod he gives her. “What is it that you’re mulling over in your head? That won’t let you sleep?”

“Fears, concerns, just… so many thoughts that tear me in every direction. I toss and turn but I can’t seem to get comfortable, not with my mind racing like that. I just wish Varric– I don’t want to disappoint him. Or any of you, for that matter. I feel like I have to solve all of these problems in my head, like I’m wasting time if I don’t at least think about them.”

“Rook, darling, you are exceptional at solving problems, at finding ways out of impossible situations, not while you rest but ad hock, as they arise. I have never met another person who is such a quick-thinker.”

“That is… kind of the issue.” She takes his free hand in hers, fiddling with the rings on his finger and watching as the light catches in the stones. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to think, didn’t have to know. I wish I could just breathe… and feel. Just once, just for a short while.”

Emmrich doesn’t reply. When she glances back up compassion fills his eyes and he regards her with such care and affection that she’d feel undeserving, if it weren’t for him reminding her of the contrary every so often. She holds his gaze for a while, slowly sliding her fingers between his, and his grip on her thigh tightens. His brows relax, then, and his eyes flicker to her mouth.

“I am certain there are ways… to take your mind off of things,” he says, his voice dropping to a low whisper. His fingers untangle from hers and soon his palm finds her cheek instead, cradling her head in a way that has her blood rushing to her face. “May I?”

“Yes.”

Thumb pushing her chin up, he leans in slowly, and as her eyes close Rook only feels the warmth of his breath against her skin. His mouth descends on hers, then, careful, a light brush of his lips against hers. He breaks away after a moment, eyelids drooping, lust-heavy, lashes fluttering open just enough to see if she’s alright. Without thinking she finds herself reaching up for more, utterly lost to the sensation, and he immediately presses in more firmly at her insistence. Rook’s hand finds purchase on his chest, fingers fanned out over his heart, then sliding upwards to his neck to pull him impossibly closer, only briefly getting caught on his pin. Emmrich sighs into it, curling his fingers around her head, angling her to his liking as he deepens the kiss. The taste of berries lingers on his tongue and she can feel his moustache prickling at her cupid’s bow. By now her whole body is tingling, nerves alight. His other hand has wandered up to her waist, slotting neatly into the valley above her hip to draw her in until their upper bodies are almost flush.

A whine escapes her at the feeling of him so close, a new kind of need trickling into her belly, and she forgets about the bowl in her lap until she tries to move and it slides to the floor next to them. The sound penetrates the tiny space they made for themselves but it doesn’t burst. Emmrich pulls back, not once glancing away from her, his eyes so set on her lips that they never fully open. She keeps close as well, breaths mingling and noses touching. Right when she thinks he’ll lean in again  his eyes flick up to hers, searching for her expression.

“How do you feel now, dearest?” he asks, thumb caressing her cheekbone.

Rook can’t help but laugh against the sudden rush of affection, the giddy sensation below her breastbone. “Like you’re the only person in the world, like I never want to stop doing this.”

He joins in, a low chuckle that he exhales against her neck, lips placed just below her ear. When he kisses her there the feeling travels from her chest to her stomach. “Mhm, I think we can do even more for you, darling. If you just hold still…”

Her gaze blurs and she closes her eyes to the sensation, the world around her finally quiet with his mouth on her skin. Fingers combing through his hair she feels him hum from somewhere deep in his throat and for the first time in weeks it’s easy to let go, no other thought strong enough to push past the intensity with which he occupies her every sense. She briefly thinks that it’s reckless to let herself fall so completely, but as with the endless Fade around them there are things bigger than her, uncontrollable, and all she can do is surrender.

✦ ✧ ✦

Emmrich watches her as she reads, perched on a chair in front of the fire. His book, still. Or again, rather. She doesn’t seem to get tired of it, of him, even though they spend so much time together now that he’s surprised she just lets him keep talking and talking until he has to reign it in himself. The first time he caught her tracing his name on the cover he felt like he could sweep her of her feet, pull her into his arms and kiss her until she was breathless. He finds himself thinking about similar scenarios more often now that he can allow himself to indulge.

“The ground herbs now, Manfred,” he orders.

Manfred gives a hiss that he’d place more on the side of confused than understanding. Unusual, since they have been working on these types of healing potions multiple times a week now. He should be more than familiar with the procedure.

“The herbs, please,” Emmrich repeats, but his eyes are back on Rook, turning the page, her legs crossed with one foot bobbing up and down. Just earlier he had her in his lap in the exact same chair, eager for his kisses, giggling when he nosed down her neck, something he has become quite addicted to. Neck kisses, it turns out, are a particular weakness of hers.

Suddenly, an alarmed hiss. Emmrich’s startled out of his fantasy not just by Manfred but by the reagent exploding right in front of his face. Just in time he ducks to avoid the splashes landing on his skin, disgruntled when he notices a dark green stain on his pristine white sleeve. The potion he’s been working on for the past hour has turned black, fuming angrily at his mistake. Though not dangerous it is a silly error, one that was entirely preventable had he just paid more attention. This has not happened to him since he attended his first few alchemy classes way back then.

“Are you okay?” he hears Rook’s voice, though his vision is obstructed by plumes of a particularly foul-smelling fog.

“Oh, we are fine, dearest,” Emmrich calls out. Manfred gives a displeased noise at this half-lie, wiping at the spills on the table just like he’d shown him a while ago, cautious to protect himself against any potential contact to acids or other dangerous substances.

“Is it meant to smoke like that?”

Manfred hisses again as the gurgling sounds increase and Emmrich has no time to answer as he quickly adds a neutralising ingredient to save the potion from utter ruin. The smoke dissipates, the smell slowly turning into a more pleasant aroma and the colour shifts back to light green.

“The temperature has not gone down enough,” Emmrich says and Manfred chitters in his best impression of an I-told-you-so. “Ah come now, you still added them.”

The next hiss is quieter as though he’s grumbling into an imaginary beard and Emmrich gives a defeated sigh, relenting that he was at fault after all. Rook has reached his side by then, snaking an arm around his waist as she takes in the situation.

“I did alchemy classes for a while,” she says. “What happened? Didn’t you say you can brew this one in your sleep?”

“I was… distracted,” Emmrich admits, tugging her closer to his side. “It could have used another minute or two more before adding the herbs.”

“Mhm. Distracted by… ?”

The teasing smile on her face is enough to lighten his mood but with Manfred present he doesn’t want to give in yet. She’s smiling at him like she’s just waiting for him to be done and if he’s quite honest with himself he could use a break. They’ve restocked their potion supplies quite well, so this final batch should last them for a while. Time to clean up and allow his focus to shift to where it truly wishes to be.

“Let me finish here, darling, and then we can discuss the finer details of… potion brewing, hm?”

She tiptoes up to press a kiss to his cheek, mouth curved into a barely suppressed grin, then retreats to her chair to give him space. Emmrich still feels her lips on his skin when Manfred comes back with a fresh dish of ground herbs and this time they wait long enough before adding them. As he carefully bottles the potion Manfred disappears to clean the rest of their supplies. Only then does he allow his gaze to return to Rook by the fire.

“So, how did you enjoy those alchemy lessons, darling?”

“Oh, they were fun, though I never pursued any advanced classes on the matter.” She closes the book, setting it down on the chair with careful fingers. His gaze follows the gentle sway of her hips as she walks up to help him cork the bottles. “Perhaps I should. I’d like to go back to my studies at some point.”

“What a splendid idea! It is never too late, darling.” Emmrich hands her the labels and she dutifully glues them to the bottles. With a hint of pride he watches how she makes sure they’re straight and centered, just like he showed her a while ago. “As a matter of fact you might find enrolling for advanced courses that pertain to your interests quite stimulating. You are an intelligent young woman, a fast-learner with practical experience. I’m certain my colleagues would be delighted to have you in class. And even beyond, what we experience here in the Fade, everything we have learned… it practically begs for thorough scientific appraisal.”

“I’m not sure they would even accept me after what happened. And besides, would that not be a conflict of interest?”

“Oh, you would not be taking any of my classes, dear. It would not be a good look if I favoured you or helped you into any higher positions under my influence.”

She furrows her brow. “But even your colleagues would know who I am.”

“There are plenty of areas you could branch out to, within or outside of my area of expertise, and I know of a few colleagues who share our… distaste for parts of the nobility, who might be willing to overlook any past transgressions. My advice is that you must find a path to whatever calls to you, my darling, and not make it dependant on my work.”

She takes a deep breath, evidently not convinced. “I just hope I can go back at all.”

“My dear, I should think that saving the world makes for quite an impressive addition to your resume.”

“I’m not… Ugh. Emmrich, I’m not talking about work or my studies, there is enough that needs to be done around the Necropolis. I just think if we want to…” She looks up at him, almost shyly, reluctant to tell the truth. “If we want to build a future and half the Necropolis hates me–”

“Half the Necropolis?” He chuckles. “You exaggerate, dearest.”

Her confused expression tells him that she took note of how he avoided the first part of her statement, not quite deliberately. “What I’m trying to say is that what I care most about is being with you, after all of this is over. Returning to the Mourn Watch, yes, but also making sure we get to be together and finally find some peace.”

Emmrich can’t help the sigh that escapes him, his thoughts returning to a place he has been trying to avoid as of late. “Darling, while I appreciate your enthusiasm on the matter, I do not wish to see you sacrificing your potential for me.”

“That’s not what it is, though, Emmrich. I’m telling you that I’m… that I’m ready to commit to a future with you. I really want to make this work.”

A distant throbbing in his temple, his breath speeding up just the tiniest bit as the old fear comes creeping in. He’s so much older than her, so much closer to not having much of a future left, and here is this bright young woman so enamoured with him that she can’t see how she’s not just going to spend the next few decades loving him but potentially taking care of him as his health declines, ultimately losing him to his own mortality. All he can think of is how she doesn’t realise what she’s agreeing to, that perhaps he was too lax, allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy of this union without the proper precautions.

“It is easy to forget,” he says, “just how young you are.”

His gaze is still trained on the bottles and he notices how her hands still.

At her lack of a response he looks up. “Rook–”

Something in her expression changes then, irrevocably, tightened lips, the tense heat of humiliation, and he knows instantly that he misstepped, his silence on the very matter she needed reassurance on painfully noted. “So it’s Rook again now? That’s it?”

“Do you even realise what kind of commitment you are speaking of?” He can’t keep his voice steady, betraying that he is not as calm as he’d wish to appear. “The sacrifices, the eventual loss? I would not impress this upon you if it was not necessary, Rook, but you need to understand what it means if we truly, irrevocably, fall into this. I remember, at your age, I was–”

“Wait, hold on. Let me make sure I understand what we are really talking about.” Her hands fly to her hips, defiantly, the same fire he’d admire on any other day, words leaving her mouth before she can even think to let him finish. “You trust me to make all the right calls to save the world, to keep our team safe, to defeat two ancient Elven Gods, but you don’t think I’m capable of making informed decisions in our relationship?”

His jaw falls open. “Darling–”

“What are you really scared of? That you could actually love me? Or is it that I don’t fit into your life back home?”

Emmrich pales at the implication, his tongue not catching up fast enough to form the right words. ”No, dear, this is not at all what I’m trying to say.“

She’s already shut him out, then, retreating into herself, and he regrets that he ever mentioned such a thing. “Well, at least now I know where we’re at.”

“Darling–”

“I’ll carry these to the stash.”

She’s gone before he can recover, glass bottles rattling as she rushes past. You don’t think I’m capable of making informed decisions in our relationship? He closes his eyes for a moment, hand holding on tightly to the edge of the table as a wave of regret washes over him. It was not what he meant to imply, though it starts to dawn on him how she came to the conclusion. He went about this the wrong way, not a subject matter for such spontaneous discussion, at least not after she admitted that she wishes to share her precious future with him.

A deep sigh, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He let his fear get the better of him, again, to the detriment of the person he’s starting to care most about. Minutes later, when Manfred reappears,  he is still standing still, confused chatters at the sight of him in front of the table where he now places the cleaned potion utensils.

“Thank you, Manfred,” Emmrich finally says. “You have to excuse me for a moment, I must go and talk to Rook.”

✦ ✧ ✦

The Grand Necropolis swallows her in the way she’s always felt as a comforting embrace. To walk amongst the spirits brings a peace that is hard to find elsewhere, wisps following along as she traverses the ever shifting rooms, the sands of time crunching underneath her feet, wails of long forgotten souls crying to be heard, seeking the peace and comfort only a watcher can offer.

Rook feels the weight of missing her home, the increasing sense that she’s almost a stranger now, but losing it is only one of many things that have uprooted her.

It is easy to forget just how young you are.

He’d said it almost casually dismissive and she was so taken aback by it that her breath caught, the unexpected pain so heavy in her chest that she’s not sure she’s recovered from it even now. She’s always felt the gap between their ages only as a steady, reassuring thing that enabled him to a deeper understanding, not less. He is so much more settled than anyone she’s been with before, so assured in what he wants, reliable, supportive, experienced, the very antidote to her anxieties and restlessness. The words of her companions come to mind, their concerns at how fast they’re moving, and then, distantly, the idea that perhaps his infatuation with her wore off after all, the novelty of whatever drew him to her.

Then he called her Rook and the name almost hurt more than his previous words, as though he confirmed her worst fears by falling back on it, dropping the words of affection. It is easy to get swept up in the overwhelming intoxication of fresh love, she knew her attentions always flattered him, that he’s not in the habit of dating people so much younger, in fact hasn’t been this close with anyone in quite some time. It’s entirely possible that their argument burst their idealist bubble, that he suddenly realised it’s not what he wants after all. That she is not what he wants.

The Memorial Gardens are quiet, though the odd spirit senses her presence and comes to greet her on her way. It brings a smile to her tear-stained face, the first honest one in quite some time. The ghost of a memory keeps haunting her with every step, the first time Emmrich brought her here, after she’s missed her home for so long that it must have been obvious for him how she was longing to reconnect with it. If nothing else, he gave her that, the courage to come back even if only for a short visit.

Rook takes her time gathering flowers, making sure to add specks of lilac, to bind a bouquet she knows he would approve of. Seeing the graves of his parents sends that same painful stake through her heart as it did the first time he told her, as if him letting her in on this vulnerable thing has her carrying a part of his grief as well. Rupert and Elannora. She told him they’d want him to him to be with someone who cares about him but she wanted to say more, someone who loves him, adores every part of him, treasures the sweet, caring man that he truly is.

Back then she was so confident that she could be that person.

She fills a vase with flowers and places it between the graves, then sits down on the grass in front of them. A wisp settles by her side, perhaps a spirit of compassion, perhaps some other emotion she can’t identify it being drawn to. So many things go through her head that it is hard to make sense of the nuance of her feelings but spirits are better at this than humans anyway.

She wonders if anything she said hurt him, if it brought up his fear of his own mortality to a degree that made him withdraw from her. Their future is more than uncertain but Emmrich seems so intent on the fact that he’ll die first, that he can’t let her shoulder what it means to be with an older man. But she does, she’s aware of all that comes with it, and yet none of it would ever make her flinch back. The essence of what she wants from her future, if she’s granted the privilege of ever seeing it, is to be with someone who loves her like she knows he is capable of.

As she stares at the names on the gravestone she thinks that Emmrich more than anyone should know that death does not discriminate between young and old.

Suddenly the wisp flies up and dances around. She turns and then there he is, as if conjured by her thoughts. The wisp must have sensed what upset her because it flies over to Emmrich and circles him, excitement in each movement, encouragement for him to walk faster. He looks rougher than she left him a few hours ago, his hair unusually messy, expression frantic, and he’s quick-stepped as he approaches. Fear settles in her belly, paralysing her in her spot, the possibility that this is not the reunion she hopes for but an end to whatever it is they had.

When he reaches her the wisp settles back by her side, almost protective. She sees Manfred, then, somewhere in the distance, unsure if his presence is a good or a bad sign. Her legs still won’t move and she’s sure that she looks utterly terrified.

“Darling,” Emmrich breathes, the word more of a relieved sigh than a greeting. “I am so glad I found you. No, actually it is Manfred who suspected you might be here. When you weren’t to be found at the Lighthouse–” He stops himself, takes a deep breath. “Please don’t ever scare me like that again.”

For a moment she’s taken aback – at how pained his voice sounds, at the red-framed eyes that look down to her. She can feel her limbs shaking and has to glance away, back to the graves. “I wasn’t sure who else to talk to, I don’t have any graves to visit of my own. I hope you don’t mind that I came here.”

“Of course not, dearest.”

She holds her hand out for the wisp to settle on, a comforting energy spreading into her palm. “I don’t want the others to see me like this. But here… the spirits are gentle with me. I find comfort in the memory of those who time carried away.”

“Please, stand up, darling,” he prompts and when she looks up she sees the tremor that runs through him in his extended hand. She allows him to pull her to her feet, though she can’t quite bring herself to fully close the gap and embrace him how she wants to.

“I brought them flowers.”

“I know,” he whispers, the subtlest sheen of tears glistening at his waterline. “Thank you, my sweet girl.”

Emmrich never lets go of her hand, pulls it to his heart where he keeps it trapped. The wisp floats around their bodies now that they’re close enough and soon a second wisp joins in, then a third, energised by the unspoken emotions whirring between them. She can feel Emmrich’s heartbeat, mirroring the rapid thrumming of her own.

“I–”

He never gets to finish his sentence. Soft music carries over to where they stand and the wisps begin to dance to its rhythm. More spirits join in, slow-dancing with each other between the graves and statues. Looking around she spots Manfred running towards them.

“Where is the music coming from?” Rook asks but then she finally sees the three skeletons following slowly behind Manfred, each holding a different instrument that they play with profound excellence even as they move. The song is romantic, lap harp and violin harmonising with the fairytale like sounds of clear crystal bells.

“Ah, well, I– They are a little early,” Emmrich says, cheeks tinted with a hint of bashfulness. “I was planning for them to arrive after I talked to you. Admittedly, I was in quite a rush with this spell once I knew you were here, even though it is rather simple…”

Manfred has reached them, effectively redirecting their attention, and his hand slides into Rook’s with the excitement of a little boy, pulling her away from Emmrich. He hisses happily as he spins her around, a little clumsily at first but with the right intentions, mirroring the wisps around them. More and more spirits appear in the gardens, drawn by the music, and soon it feels as though they’re attending a dance. Rook does her best to keep up but it’s hard to focus, the sheer wonder at what she’s witnessing clouding her mind.

“This is marvellous,” she says and the fear and melancholy fade from her heart for the first time since she came here, making way for almost childlike amazement.

Manfred spins her around once more, the song transitioning into a different tune, and then he guides her back, placing her hand in Emmrich’s. He hisses, rattling their now joined hands to get them to move, and Rook can’t help but look up at him with hope plainly written across her unguarded features.

“May I have this dance?” Emmrich asks who so far has been watching the scene without joining in, his own eyes sparkling when they meets hers.

She merely manages to nod, the words caught in her throat at the feeling of his arms circling her, finally pulling her close. Gentle fingers guide her into slow movement, his hands on her hips while she loosely wraps hers around his neck. The moment freezes, all Rook can focus on is the way he feels, the way his eyes soften, not once glancing away, the music and the sounds of their steps, the gentle jingling of his jewellery. Limbs move on their own accord, following an invisible rhythm. They dance for so long that they hardly notice the way the spirits begin to mimic their movement, not until Rook sneaks a glance at Manfred who is following along with another wisp.

Emmrich’s hands squeeze her hips, then, and he leans in, pressing his cheek to hers. She can feel his chest trembling, the mild scratching of shaved skin against hers, his lips ghosting along her ear.

“Forgive me, darling,” he whispers. “I was a fool.”

“Emmrich–”

He stops, pulls her closer without moving now, hugging her so tight that he presses the very air from her lungs. They stay in this embrace for along time, relief closing Rook’s eyes, the notion that she was wrong, that he might have felt just as awful after she left his rooms. His warmth mends the wounds his words left and how could she not forgive him, when he made all this possible just to reach her?

“I have a condition,” she says after a while. It has him breaking away just enough to meet her gaze, brows pulling together. “When we’re trying to have a serious conversation, I don’t want you to bring up my age to invalidate my point.”

He gives a firm nod, a hand travelling up to cradle her jaw. “It is a promise I gladly make, dearest. But I have to express a condition as well. Don’t…” His thumb swipes across her cheek, indenting it just enough to stress his point. “Don’t leave me after we’ve had an argument. When I could not find you– My darling, I cannot do it again, the thought of you wandering around, hurting because of me–”

“I won’t,” she says. “Though experiencing this was more than worth it.”

“It is quite marvellous, is it not?” He smiles, leans in to rest his forehead against hers. “I thought you might enjoy it. Nothing is quite so comforting as the presence of music.”

“Perhaps you can show me the spell one day.”

“Oh, I would love to, dearest.”

She brushes her nose against his, her fingers sliding into his hair, spreading over the nape of his neck. He sighs, not quite closing the gap but he can’t stop his fingers from pressing harder against her cheek.

“Tell me there is a future for us,” she says, returning to the conversation they left so many hours ago. “You and I, Manfred, a life here with all of this, for as long as we get. Is this not what you want?”

“There is nothing I want more, darling,” he says, trying to pull away without success.

“I know there is a version of the future you gave up on, a life with someone who loves you, a family of your own. But we can have all that and more. Don’t you think that would be enough?”

“It would be more than enough. It would be everything I could hope for.”

“So, do you trust me? Enough that you can accept my choice to be with you, even if it scares you?”

He swallows against her thumb, bending his neck backwards to see more of her face. His eyes are glistening but there is a hint of a smile in his features. “Darling, I would lay my beating heart into your hands,” he says, “trusting that you’ll breathe life into it for as long as we are together.”

A smile of her own and before she can reply he’s pressing his mouth to hers, a breathless sort of kiss, ingesting her sound of surprise. Behind them the music changes, the quiet song transitioning into a happier tune. When they break away the spirits are even livelier than before and forget to take note of them as they circle the statues, dance around each other.

“Might I suggest we move to a quiet spot, darling?” Emmrich asks, linking their hands between their bodies. “I think I know just the place.”

✦ ✧ ✦

She doesn’t have much time to take in the magnificent stonework, a sarcophagus like many she’s seen around the Necropolis but on the more spacious side, ornate etchings, cushioned in purple velvet. Green lights illuminate the nook it’s nestled in, long shadows dancing across the wall when Emmrich pushes her up against the edge of the stone coffin. His hands on her hips divert her attention back to him, nose nuzzling her cheek, trailing down to her jaw. Eager lips press to the side of her neck and he hugs her close, the insistent pressure in his fingertips betraying how much he wants her no matter how hard he tries to be polite.

“I didn’t know this was here,” she whispers. “The ornamentations are beautiful.”

“It is rather pleasant here, is it not?” he asks, all soft, his voice low and his face unguarded, eyes drawn to her every feature, as if he can’t drink her in enough. It’s the exact way he looks at her whenever he’s about to kiss her.

There’s not much of a gap to close, their bodies melting together, his mouth smouldering, a deep sigh he releases from the very depths of his ribcage. He’s taking charge, a confidence that only comes with experience, but he never loses the slow softness in his touch, the sensual press of his lips that renders her utterly defenceless.

“Do you feel ready for this, dear heart?” he whispers, every word tickling her lips with the ghost of his breath. “For me to touch you? Taste you? Pleasure you?”

His hands trail down, slotting into the perfect bend just above her thighs. His thumbs press into the soft tissue, so close to where she needs him, and she can’t help how her hips buck, tilting into his touch. He strokes her there, sensing how sensitive she is already, and her whole body shivers.

“Please,” she hears herself whisper, as though her voice is coming from somewhere outside of herself. Emmrich hums, lips trailing the shape of her face. Her eyes flutter closed when his mouth applies more pressure, sucking gingerly at the spot where her pulse beats a merciless rhythm against her skin. She doesn’t notice his hand moving until it cups her, two fingers pressing between her legs, a gasp following when he rubs them back and forth. “Emm–”

“Oh, darling,” he breathes, voice trembling at the last syllable. “How delightfully wet you already are for me.”

She thinks the world is blurring around her, her hands somewhat loosely wrapped around his shoulders now sliding down his back, briefly catching at the buckle of his vest before she finally feels the rougher fabric of his pants, desperately pulling him against her. Emmrich falters, hand slipping to her thigh, swallowing a breathy sound of surprise as his hips slot forward. She can feel him, half-hard against her abdomen, a breathy whimper, their bodies coming together in full evidence of the desire they share.

“Please,” she whispers again, though all she wants is for it to last forever. Not tonight though, no. Her body is already too wound up, the sheer intensity of the day amplifying every little sensation, the fears that carried her to the Necropolis still palpable, only fully receding at the breathtaking relief of finding him still wanting her so desperately, so evidently. And she wants to forget them, the silly argument, the insecurities, uncertainties, all so very meaningless when his mouth is on hers. His body is attuned to hers now, his attentions sharply focused, and every fibre of her being aches to feel him deeper, closer.

Emmrich is meticulous at the way he undresses, so practiced she doesn’t notice he’s opened his vest and shirt until he breaks away to assess her state. She never bothered to put on full armour either, a little reckless but it did not feel right to visit his parents under defensive measures. Emmrich opens her belt so easily that she’s surprised when the sound of it falling reverberates in the stone chamber. Then the clasps on her shirt come undone, surprisingly steady hands that even if they don’t weave magic seem to move in an almost musical rhythm. His bangles jingle and she thinks she doesn’t want him to be without them, though perhaps one day she’d like to see him in nothing but gold and gemstones all over.

His body is lithe underneath the fabric, athletic in the way of regular movement and a conscious diet but softened with age, specks of grey hair on a boney chest with prominent ribs, giving way to a less defined belly where the hair is lighter until it eventually darkens again at the apex of his legs. Rook can’t help but reach out, fingertips cautiously climbing up from his belly button to his collarbone. Emmrich pauses as she does it, fumbling with the last clasp, and she can see his Addam’s apple bobbing up and down. Encouraged, she flattens her hand, pushing his shirt open wider, a second hand following to really feel him now, explore him, every bone that sticks out, every tense muscle, every soft pillow of flesh she presses against. He’s gone limp, though his breathing quickens, and when her thumbs brush his nipples his forehead falls against hers.

“Dearest,” he whispers, a shudder running through him.

“You’re lovely,” she says. “All of you, I am– Emmrich, I feel so lucky to have you.”

He gives a quivering breath, a sound that has his chest deflating against her palm. Then he kisses her so deeply, so tenderly, that her eyes close, a hand cradling her face in the way he only ever cradles his most precious books or skulls.

“I want all of you,” Rook whispers. “And I want to give you all of me. I am not afraid of what that means, Emmrich. My love. I need you.”

He smiles, an air of relief in the way he exhales against her lips. “Then I shall be glad to fulfil every single one of those desires, my darling. Your trust is the most precious thing I have ever held in my two hands.”

A soft muffled sound as her shirt hits the floor, boots kicked aside, her pants sliding down. Emmrich is more methodical, making sure they won’t wake to wrinkled shirts or kinks in their leathers. His hair has fallen into his face, covering his forehead as he unlaces himself, and every single aspect of the sight of him half-naked, disheveled, taken apart, makes her want him more and more. She knows how vulnerable it makes him feel, how hard he works to keep up his appearance, the respect it earns him, a sense of control and dignity he clings to. When he moves to take off his jewellery she stops him, toying with the gold.

“Keep those on,” she says.

“Not the rings, dearest,” he replies. “I do want those fingers inside of you without worrying about contamination.”

He helps her over the ledge, hands on her thighs, and the cushioned fabric soothes her skin, soft against her back. Once he has her pinned beneath him his eyes darken, gaze as thick as the velvet beneath. Her heart is racing, thumping against her ribcage to the rhythmic aching between her thighs. Emmrich spreads her legs, one hand on her bare skin, fingers squeezing at her as he settles there, on his knees. He pulls her up into a sitting position, legs on either side of him.

“May I take this off?” he inquires, one finger sliding beneath the laces of her smallclothes, the ones that strain to cover her breasts.

“Please do.”

He tugs, the piece of fabric coming apart to reveal her fully. Emmrich keeps his eyes on hers, as if to make sure she is alright, that she truly wants this, and when he finds no objection he finally takes her in. At first he is cautious, cupping one of her breasts with his long hand as if to weigh it, thumb brushing over her hardened nipple until goosebumps spread all over her skin and the electric bolt of pleasure shoots to her core. He continues softly, both hands now, stimulating her with scientific caution, watching out for every gasp, every closing of her eyelids, the way she leans into his touch, her hands on his bare thighs that are covered with dark grey hair, angled inwards to push her breasts together.

Emmrich leans in, tempted by the parting of her lips as she sighs into every little tug off her nipples, giving her a kiss that shakes her out of her stupor. But he’s not resting there, instead he meanders down, wet-lipped, tongue tasting her skin until his mouth closes over one breast. The other one he still cradles in his hand, rolling her peak between thumb and forefinger, and her core clenches at every pinch, at every flick of his tongue, the way he oh so gently sucks at her soft flesh with such a warm and eager mouth.

“Emmrich,” she sighs, her hand moving into his hair, forgetting of how neatly he keeps it, fingers tugging at the back of his head until he moans so headily into her skin that her whole lower body shifts forward, unbidden. “I can’t– Please.”

He removes himself, urges her to lay back again, and for a moment he just looks at her, already close to a mess, her hair disheveled, lips kiss-swollen and red, nipples puffy and erect as the slick gathers between her legs in a wet patch. He roams her body, a hand caressing the softness of her belly, adoringly but with evident of arousal that has his eyelids drooping and mouth parted with heavy exhales. Still on his knees, he moves on to her thighs, those long arms bending, testing how far he can spread her, how sensitive she is to his touch. His lips press to the inside of her knee and all Rook can do to distract herself from falling apart untouched is to busy herself with her breasts, fingers clenching with every kiss he peppers along the inside of her thigh now.

“Emmrich.” The word is more of a gasp, her hips stuttering upwards with every beat of her pulse. “Please, love, I am aching.”

“Are you, my heart?” He pushes his thumb right against her core, the fabric all but drenched, stroking up and down to gather more of her arousal. “I had hoped to take my time with you here tonight and perhaps I will, later. I can’t possible keep you waiting any longer, not when you’re begging so beautifully, my love.”

He hooks his fingers underneath the waistband, tugging at her underclothes to slide them off her legs. It would not have occurred to her to be bashful, to be shy, if it were anyone else. But with Emmrich things are different, her insides all gooey, heart stuttering, the blood that has not gathered between her legs now rushing to her cheeks. She realises that this is the feeling she has been hoping to find at some point in her life, the desperate need to be one with someone else, not just for pleasure, but for the soul, to come together in a way that expands your very self to make room for a connection unlike any other.

“Are you alright, darling?” Emmrich asks, no doubt seeing the change in her expression, the tears of overwhelm gathering in the corners of her eyes.

“I am,” she says. “Please, don’t make me wait.”

Emmrich leans forward, propped on one elbow, and his other hand slides between her legs. He probes at her, moaning at the wetness he finds, his mouth connecting with hers right as two of his fingers slide into her. She accommodates him, as though her whole body has been waiting to finally feel him, and only when he sees that she’s comfortable does he start to gently crook them, moving them against the softness of her inner wall.

Incoherent words leave her mouth, prayers she hasn’t spoken in quite some time, his name over and over, and his heat shapes her like molten gold, as though he could mould her into a shape to fit his own body, his heat encompassing her. Eyes fluttered close she can only sense him, his fingers in an increasingly deep rhythm, long and untiring, until she feels herself floating outside of herself.

“Eyes on me, darling,” he urges. “I want to see you fall apart.”

She obeys, blinking up at him right as she peaks, her legs trembling on either side of him, clenched tightly around his digits. It is pleasure the likes she hasn’t experienced in some time, perhaps never quite like this, with the added weight of feelings that are entirely new to her in their depth.

He coaxes another tremor from her, fingers crooking, stroking her insides, then he withdraws with an almost wistful sigh. “Good girl,” he whispers with a gentle kiss to her cheek. “So very good. Now, do you think you’re ready to receive me, hm?”

Rook can only nod, words still eluding her, his satisfied smile almost making her want to laugh.  He kisses her once again, tongue-deep, hungry, like he can taste the pleasure in her mouth. The hair on his upper lip leaves her with the delicious tickle she’s grown so fond of and then he’s shifting, wriggling and, within seconds she can feel him bare and hard between her thighs.

Instinctively, her hips roll inward, angling higher to receive him but Emmrich hovers. When she glances down she can see him curved in his hand, dark hair, neatly trimmed, framing him. He is long, rather slender, unlike the pale rest of his body already red-tipped and blood-swollen. With a few pumps of a desperate hands, bangles producing the ever-present jingle, Emmrich spreads her slick over the tight skin. His tip presses forward between her folds, skin retracting, his bare head pressing against her swollen clit. With a plethora of needy little sounds he slides back and forth, gathering the evidence of her earlier peak, the stimulation of her burning nerves almost enough to make her come again.

Emmrich looks up at her then and her breath catches. He looks utterly ruined already, unusually sweaty, hair clinging to his forehead, his pupils dilated under heavy eyelids, mouth red and glistening. He heaves a breath, more a sign of his constraint than any exhaustion as he tries to prepare her, make all of this a painfree, enjoyable experience for her before ever considering his own needs. She can see the precise moment his patience snaps, just after their eyes meet, fire crackling between them, and he pushes into her with a sound that is unrestrained pleasure.

“Darling,” he breathes. “My sweet, sweet darling.”

Their bodies fall into an easy rhythm, his hips rocking into hers, shallow at first, stretching her further, then a deeper grind until she keens with every roll of his pelvis. Emmrich keeps one hand on her chin, making sure her head stays angled so he can look at her, eye contact never breaking even as they both struggle to stay present. Rook can feel him so deep inside of her. But it’s not just a physical depth, it’s the feelings she has for him that trickle into every pulse of pleasure, every gasp, every squeeze of his biceps, every tug at his hair, every clenching of her muscles, fingers. The words tumble from her lips then, moving past her throat too quickly to be caught.

“I love you,” she whispers. “I love you, Emmrich.”

At first he stutters, eyes opening wider, the sheer surprise of hearing the words. But then his gaze softens, expression melting into the gentlest affection, a smile, that glimmer in his eyes that speaks of such intimate fondness. “And I love you, my darling.”

She smiles back and then his mouth meets her desperately, the kiss a painful force that will leave her lips bruised, all while his thrust become harder, more unrestrained, as if the words are untying a knot deep inside of him that finally allows him to let go. Emmrich grabs her ass with his free hand, angles her hip upwards, and he sheathes himself even deeper, swollen head sliding against her inner wall to graze the most sensitive spot there. Rook lets out a mewl, the pleasure so sudden and intense that she feels herself clenching around him again and then her head lols to the side, his hand not there to support her now, and with her eyes closed she locks her legs behind his back to draw him ever deeper, impossibly so, not close enough even now.

“Darling,” he chides, his hand back to tilt her chin, angle her gaze to his. “No glancing away.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, gripping his wrist, thumb just above his rapid pulse.

He smiles, grunts at his efforts, thrusts harder as his own body begins to tense, thighs shaking as they slam against her. The crypt enhances every sound they make, their union a choir of jangling gold, throaty groans, skin meeting skin, and the green light flickers as the lanterns take a breath that is as deep as theirs.

“I am not sure how long I can last, dearest,” he says. “I do not… do not think I have ever felt anything quite so intense before.”

“’s okay, Emmrich, me too,” Rook whispers between gasps. “It’s perfect, it’s everything”

He closes the gap again for a kiss but he’s lost his momentum, teeth and lips and bone colliding, messy but needed, that connection that tethers them together. They exist only in the tiny space inside the coffin, its walls protecting them, sheltering them in its intimacy, and it’s the comfort of knowing that the world outside fades into nothingness for these precious moments, that no one else needs her, that she is allowed to focus simply on breathing, on feeling. And what she feels is all-encompassing, pleasure and love and fulfilment, her body treasured and shared, the way Emmrich consumes her whole being with every breath, the very air that fills her lungs.

It’s only then, lost in his body, in his love, that she can fully let go.

Thank you so much for reading! Kudos, comments, reblogs etc are as always much appreciated but most of all I hope you enjoyed the story ♡

Masterlist – my Ao3

[starlight-drive-in]

You Know What They Say About Pineapples

After Neve introduced them to him, Emmrich has a new favorite fruit - pineapple. However, he doesn't know too much about them yet, luckily for him the team is willing to share their knowledge over a tropical drink. Poor Rook nearly dies of embarrassment.

This drabble is based on these 3 lines of banter between Neve and Emmrich regarding pineapples, don't ask me how I got here.

2340 Words

Ao3 Link

There are some sexually charged glances and innuendo but no smut or anything. All in all this is quite silly but the thought would not leave me alone.

Takes place in the "still just flirting" stage of the relationship.

---

It had been a long, arduous day of trampling through Arlathan, unlocking ancient elven ruins by way of solving mammoth-sized elven brain teasers, and disposing of whatever adversaries were still brave - or in Rook’s opinion - foolish enough to try their luck with The Veilguard. 

A silly name, but Bellara had been so excited when she came up with the idea of a team moniker that no one had the heart to deny her. Rook had caught the others saying it on occasion and it was really starting to stick despite the initial thought of it feeling silly.

Rook now sat at the dining hall table with Bellara, a rough schematic of an elven artifact lay out on the table between them. Both of them trying to decipher what was wrong with the similar one they had found earlier today near The Shoreside Ruins.

“I still think its timing parameters are misprogrammed.” Rook theorized, leaning over the sketch. 

“It’s more than that, It’s like it's missing the timing component completely.” Bellara noted, biting the inside of her cheek, a habit Rook had learned was an indicator of immense concentration in her energetic friend. “But if that's the case then…” Bellara trailed off.

Rook knew from experience that now was a good time for her to give the elven researcher a moment. If the past was any indicator, a breakthrough was imminent. Perhaps even before dinner, if whatever Lucanis was working on in the corner was as complicated as it looked. Rook leaned back in her seat with a sigh, wincing as her abdomen reminded her she had fallen straight into that ledge earlier. 

“You really have to get better at hopping ledges, Rook.” Davrin jabbed playfully from the other side of the table, knife and woodblock in hand, “I think I’ve seen that look on your face every day since I met you.” 

“It’s cuz she doesn’t work out.” Taash added, studying a recently finished figurine of the resident woodcarver’s, “Horns were bigger.” They decided after a moment. 

“Does traipsing around the forest all day not count as a workout?” Rook countered. “Barely.” Taash responded. “You’re not engaging your upper body at all, which is why you can’t pull yourself up for shit.” 

“I’m a necromancer, not a trapeze artist.” Rook defended. 

“Emmrich doesn’t seem to have a problem. In fact, he’s in great shape if you haven’t noticed,” Davrin commented, throwing her a knowing glance, “but I’m sure you have.” 

Rook balked, was her increasing infatuation with the other necromancer that obvious? She was a generally flirty person, surely it wasnt that glaring that her harmless flirting was turning into more with Emmrich. Right?

Taash made a short, snorting sound that resembled laughter and Rook could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, at this point her best bet was hoping she could blame it on the heat from the fireplace. 

“I notic- I mean- I” Rook stuttered. 

Davrin chuckled as the door to the dining hall opened, revealing Neve, Harding and Emmrich, who were all carrying boxes from supply a run, in this case mostly varying bottles of liquors and other liquids, and dried goods, although the latter held a box containing something green and pointy. 

“And there he is.” Davrin muttered quietly enough to tease Rook, but not loud enough that the newcomers could hear. 

“Rook, got you that whisky you wanted from Minrathous, I put it on your tab.” Neve sauntered over to the table with the others, plunking down the bottle of amber liquor in front of Rook. 

Rook smiled, “Neve, you have impeccable timing.” she beamed.

“Don’t I always?” Neve grinned before heading into the kitchen with Lucanis, “But don’t uncork that right away, I’m making cocktails.” 

“Oh!” Rook said, surprised.

“And Emmrich, you got… what are those? Cactuses?” Darvin inquired. 

“Cacti” Rook corrected under her breath, earning her an exasperated look from her Grey Warden friend.

“I wish,” Harding chimed in, “They’re pineapples. Can you guys believe Emmrich had never had a pineapple before last week?” 

Taash’s eyes turned into two unbelieving orbs. “What? How?” 

“We don't have them in Nevarra.” Rook explained, but her eyes were on Emmrich as his face lit up, dark hazel eyes sparkling with excitement. Despite his age, he possessed a remarkable childlike wonder even about something as simple as a new fruit. 

“Oh Rook, They're delicious! Have you had the opportunity to try one?” He asked, taking the seat next to her, much to her delight. 

Rook smiled, how could she not? How were the others so impervious to his good-natured charm?

“I have! Varric had me try them when we got to Minrathous.” Her smile fell as she remembered that day, before all this. She shrugged off the feeling, it was hard to feel dark with Emmrich's unexpected brightness beside her. 

“And? Tell me, do you enjoy them?” He waited on her answer so eagerly, surely just to compare tastes from the same homeland. Yes, that was probably it. 

“I do!” She giggled. Was she really giggling? His presence alone made her feel giddy.

“Wonderful! Harding doesn't seem to like them; however, Neve says she can be made into a frosty drink that she thinks Harding would enjoy.” 

“I'll try my best!” Neve exclaimed from the coffee bar, which appeared to have a bottle of a different liquor on top of it as well as, what was that? Cream? 

“Then you shall not fail my dear Neve!” Emmrich encouraged. 

Rook’s eyebrow raised excitedly, “Oh that’s new! I haven't had them in a drink yet. Only the - what was it called? ‘Upside-down cake?” 

“What an interesting name.” Emmrich commented, steepling his fingers together as he leaned into the table to address Harding, “Tell me Harding, what is it you don’t like about the pineapples?” 

Harding shrugged, “I don't know, they’re just so… tingly?” 

In the background Rook could hear the distinct sound of ice magic as Neve worked on whatever this drink was. 

“Ice magic for making cocktails? Neve Gallus, you are a genius.” Rook called out to her, earning a wink. See? She was like this with everyone; it wasn't just Emmrich, she told herself.

Emmrich’s eyebrows knitted together as he considered Harding’s description, “Could you elaborate at all on that?” 

“I don't know, when I eat pineapple it’s almost like it tastes… spiky?” Harding attempted to explain as Neve sat down glasses containing a blended off-white drink that smelled of rum in front of each of them. 

“It’s because of the raphides,” Neve enlightened them. “Lucanis, come have a drink with us, the stove wont run away if you leave it for a moment.” she called as she rounded the table, placing one in front of Bellara, who took a sip without even bothering to glance up from her notes.

“If you insist.” Lucanis surrendered, joining the rest at the table. 

“Ah! raphides, that explains it.” Emmrich said decidedly. 

“The hells a raphid?” Taash said, taking a healthy gulp of the new drink. “Fuck thats good.” 

“Some plants contain small needle-shaped crystals, as a natural defense mechanism.” Emmrich began explaining with his customary, hand waving enthusiasm, as Davrin took half of a sip. 

Emmrich continued, “While harmless in small amounts, overconsumption can cause immediate numbing followed shortly by painful stinging and burning to the mouth and throat that can last up to two weeks! I had no idea that they were in pineapple, but that does explain the sensation Harding is describing.”

Davrin lowered his glass, “On second thought, maybe I’ll pass. Thanks Neve.” 

“Afraid of a plant?” Lucanis teased, his glass already half empty, “Why am I not surprised?”

Davrin rolled his eyes as Harding timidly sampled Neve’s offering. “Oh- oh wow. Okay, That's. Really good.” 

“See how excited she is? This is how I knew she was lying about the coffee.” Lucanis chuckled. 

Emmrich sipped carefully at the beverage, “Oh Neve! That's delightful!” He exclaimed. “I am so glad I've gotten to discover such a fruit.” 

Rook began to imbibe her own drink, pulling sweet, cold rum and pineapple taste into her mouth. Her eyes met Emmrich’s through her lashes in an inopportune moment, while her lips were still wrapped dutifully around the straw. She quickly glanced away but it was too late. 

Emmrich’s mouth parted as he gazed a bit too long at Rook, pale cheeks taking on a pink hue that surely was not from the alcohol. 

“Mmf, That's so good.” Rook hummed. Dribbling a bit of the drink onto her lower lip. She swiped it away with her thumb, then popped it into her mouth to suck the drop of sweet liquid from it. Only then noticing that Emmrich was still watching her. 

Rook shifted in her seat, suddenly hot and uncomfortable. In doing so her knee tapped against Emmrich’s. 

“Sorry.” She whispered. As the others praised Neve’s drink making abilities. 

“Quite alright, My Dear.” Emmrich reassured her, his hand twitched a small increment towards her where it lay on his thigh but remained where it was. 

How long had it been since she felt such a desire to simply hold someone's hand? Certainly since before she finished Mourn Watch training. 

Rook took another pull of her drink to try to wash away the awkwardness of the moment. 

“Yea pineapples are pretty damn good,” Taash announced before dropping into a low octave,  “They're also good for uh, other things” they said in a low voice into Harding's ear while tucking back a loose strand of her hair. 

Harding giggled in response, “Taash” she admonished under her breath.

“Really?” Emmrich brightened, suddenly back to the topic at hand. “Like what?” 

Rook suddenly recalled other details of the night she had first tried pineapple. Varric and her were in a decently packed restaurant, Harding had gone out for some air and a woman at a neighboring table had leaned in close, obviously drunk. 

“Feed your old man there some of that and he’ll be feeling ready to go before you get home, plus he'll taste better, if you catch my meaning.” She had said. 

Rook had recoiled, unsure of what the woman had meant at the time, but not liking the implications. Varric was a good friend, and he was a good looking man but she didn't see him like that. Later she had looked it up in a library. Turned out pineapples had a reputation of having several sexual health benefits. 

Now - catching Taash’s meaning exactly - she choked unceremoniously on her drink. Coughing as Davrin chuckled, and Taash gave her a knowing look. Her friends were pure evil. 

“Rook looks like she knows.” Taash smiled. 

“Rook, I seem to be missing something. Would you kindly enlighten me?” Emmrich asked her so innocently. If he wasn't twenty-something years her senior she'd fear corrupting his purity. 

“It’s just an old wive’s tale.” Rook muttered. 

“I should still like to know, you are all making me more curious.” he insisted. 

The others snickered. 

“Oh Emmrich,” Rook lamented. She had to save him, let him in on the joke. 

She beckoned him with her finger hastily, “Come here,” she said in a low voice. He inclined his ear toward her and she leaned in to meet him, his floral earthy smell invading her scenes. She resisted the urge to inhale more deeply, to bury her face in his neck and breathe deep. 

“There’s… evidence that pineapple promotes.” She attempted, “That they’re good for, uh. Blood flow. That sort of thing”

“Oh that's marvelous! Perhaps I should add it to my diet then.” he pondered excitedly. 

They all stared at him, Rook included. Was she not clear enough? She couldn't exactly bring herself to tell him it was specifically sexual health the fruit was known for. 

Emmrich leaned back, folding his leg over his opposite knee and took another long sip of his cocktail, “Although, I will have you all know. I have no problems with blood flow. Thank you very much.” 

“Damn. Alright.” Taash commented. 

“Good news Rook.” Davrin smirked. 

“You’re both horrible.” Neve said flatly. 

“I don't get it,” Lucanis deadpanned, heading back into the kitchen unbothered. 

“I got it!” Bellara exclaimed, finally looking up from her notes and schematics. “Oh! Hey everyone!” 

—

Later, after dinner and another cocktail, or was it two? Rook and Emmrich sat alone at the table catching one another up on their days. Rook was glad he had a chance to visit the Minrathous markets and Emmrich was interested in taking a look at the artifact her and Bellara had discovered himself. 

Rook fidgeted with the straw in her now empty glass. 

“Emmrich, about before, with the whole pineapple thing?” 

He cocked an eyebrow, urging her to continue. 

“I should have explained better.” 

“Oh, Darling, don't even think of apologizing. I've been a teacher long enough to know when I'm being taken for a fool. I find the best way to move past it is just to act unaffected. Trust me, it wasn't the first time I've been laughed at for not being ‘in-the-know’ on some innuendo or otherwise.”

Rook laughed, Of course he was a professional at handling embarrassment, she wished she could say the same.

“Luckily I caught on quickly enough to play along. Although…” he paused, looking at her more attentively now. “... Now that it's just the two of us, I wouldn't mind if you’d expound?” 

She looked away nervously, “Well besides the whole blood flow for sexual health thing. They make you … taste good apparently.” She mumbled. 

“As in your mouth?” He asked. 

“No, as in… your.” She motioned to her crotch with as much dignity as she could muster. 

“Oh!” He gasped, then “oh.” Softer this time. “I shall bear that in mind then.” He concluded, smirking at her. 

In reply, Rook popped a small slice of the offending fruit into her mouth and raised her brow. A challenge to be cashed in later, should this go any further. 

For now, she was happy to be here drunk on him, and rum… and pineapple.