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dinsbeskar · 8 months ago

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The Number of the Beast (Sauron/F!Reader)

After his frankly embarrassing defeat at Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Sauron seeks you out;

You discover his werewolf form and press him for the whole truth and nothing but

Sequel to Wicked Game // AO3 Link

Songs to listen to: Animals by Maroon 5, Closer by Nine Inch Nails (obviously Sauron's jam), Teeth by Lady Gaga

Special Mention to Home by Snow Ghosts, as recommended by @sansaorgana, immaculate vibes for this fic!!

Warnings: 18+! Werewolf!Sauron, smut (smh we cannot keep it clean for 5 minutes!!) werewolf sex (I'm sorry!! It's not a lot!! Idk!!!), P in V sex, oral sex (female receiving), dubcon (he is not in control of himself and even though you are up for it, you're still terrified of him and his uhhh size), size kink/size difference, hurt/comfort, manipulation (it's Sauron, he sucks guys idk), angst towards the end

A/N: y'know what, I warned you all this was going to happen. Sauron is a werewolf, and things get interesting weird. Idk I don't feel like it's overwhelmingly filthy, maybe y'all won't mind 😂🙈 there is actual plot to this one, and it will be fairly pertinent to the rest of the story, but you can skip the smut if it's not your cup of tea, I get it!! (Skip the section marked by ***)

Word Count: 4.9k!

Writing playlist here if so inclined 😅

Translation note: Amarië means 'goodness', Uthaessel means "tempting girl' as far as I can tell!

A nameless terror has been stalking your kin in these woods for years, and you are eager for your husband's embrace as you delve further into the woods, heart racing at every tiny rustle in the trees. He would never let anything happen to you, but he was not here, at least not as far as you could tell.

Usually when he drew close, you could feel a warmth deep in your soul, like embers stoked in a neglected fire, made to dance and blaze again with renewed vigour whenever he returned to you. But for the moment all you feel is an icy cold fear in the pit of your stomach; you should not be out here alone.

You think to turn back, to run back to the safety of your fledgling city, but you press on. He promised he would be here, and you cannot disappoint him, not after the long months he has spent in the north craving your touch.

The forest is so quiet as you make your way to the glade that has become so sacred to you and your husband. You keep as silent as you can, footsteps making no rustle in the leaves underfoot; the air is too still, the silence deafening where there should be sounds of birds and insects conducting their nightly business.

You are not far from your meeting place now as even the wind falls still. You breathe a sigh of relief as you catch sight of the rushing water that will lead you to safety. He will be there to assuage all your silly fears, the thought giving you the strength to keep moving.

A sharp howl, long and guttural, pierces the air, and you freeze. It sounded far off, or maybe closer than you think; your head is in a spin as you try to judge what could have possibly made such an unearthly sound. It didn't sound like any wolf you've ever heard; it had an almost sorrowful lilt that drew you to it. Shaking it off, you creep into the glade, expecting to see him there.

Disappointment washes through you; you are alone, and now you hear another howl, closer than before.

He will understand, you think, let's go home.

You start to take the winding path back to the thick treeline, but hear cracking branches, heavy footfall, ragged breath, from the dark undergrowth.

You back up, starting to shake and sweat. You are not made for this, never have you had to protect yourself from such a beast. You look around for anything with which to defend yourself, landing on a large broken branch that looks like it might be lethal in the right hands. Shame then, that your hands have never seen combat.

Dragging your makeshift weapon, you look for somewhere to hide, terrified that the beast might have already caught your scent.

He doesn't know why he's here, why he would put you through the horror of seeing him in his bestial glory; all he knows is that defeat has pushed him into your radiant embrace, to soothe the heavy losses he had suffered and prepare the fortitude of his mind to face his master's wrath.

His defeat at the hands of some Elf-Maia and her dog had shamed him; he could not go back to Angband now, not now Tol-in-Gaurhoth was lost, and all he craved was your touch, for you to wash away all his ills.

He pads through the forest, trailing a silent darkness in his wake, all birds and beasts fleeing before him. His black blood drips and pools in the undergrowth, scorching the earth.

His mind is clouded with pain and shame, something with which he is not familiar, and would not suffer again given the option, how it turns his stomach, and makes him crave nothing but your sweet embrace. Where are you? He can think of nothing else, having travelled so far in search of salvation.

The breeze betrays you, carrying the sweet scent of the berries you love to eat, the oils you use on your skin, and he groans, a deep visceral sound that would usually shake the foundations of Middle Earth, if only he were not so deeply tired.

He follows your scent, instinctively, unthinking as to how you might receive him. As he gets closer, his soul sings for you, his heart swells, and he can think of nothing else.

Exhausted, he reaches out to you, tendrils of his mind softly caressing yours. He hears your soft sigh and follows the sweet sound to your doom.

The forest around you turns deathly silent, the very air robbed of its oxygen in a split second. You hear only the crack of fallen branches and the heavy movement of something massive in the dark.

You should be terrified, why do you not run?

Quaking in your hiding spot, you find yourself rooted to the spot, crouching and unable to move, doomed to listen to the beast in the dark.

You feel it then; a darkness in your mind, touching your thoughts, and the terror grows. The scent of sweat dripping down your back only helps him find you sooner, and as you hear him approach, the tremor in your fingers grows.

If you can only stay quiet, perhaps it will ignore you, perhaps you will be blessed tonight. You screw your eyes shut and pray.

Alas, a hot huff of breath sweeps the side of your face, and you scream, you can't help but keep screaming, even after you've picked up your weapon and blindly struck the great beast, before you roll out from under it and run as fast as your legs can carry you.

He shakes his head, blind rage now overtaking him, even as he sees you, scents you, wants nothing more than to cover and embrace you.

The pair of you race through the forest; you know it as well as any of your people, all the shortcuts and secret places. But your quick light tread is vastly outmatched by his sheer ferocity, and in your panic, you take a wrong turn, meeting a sharp cliff face where you were sure there was a waterfall you might have lost the beast in. You curse your folly and spin around, awaiting your fate.

Two great paws come to rest either side of you, as its wolven face bears its teeth and snarls, black blood dripping from the gash you inflicted on its temple.

You can do nothing but shut your eyes, shaking in terror as the beast takes you in, sniffing at you and panting. Any moment now, this will all be over...

Amarië... love... need you...

The unspoken voice you hear is somehow familiar, deeper and more guttural, and yet...

You reach out your hand, offering your soothing touch freely. Baleful golden eyes watch you carefully as he closes the gap and leans in to your trembling touch. You should run.

"Mairon..." The beast's eyes soften as you look up at him, and you realise a terrible sorcery is at play here.

You feel his mind caress yours and you relax, easing into the unfamiliar feeling of fur beneath your fingers. You trace the sinewy muscle of his neck a while, assuring him in hushed tones that you've got him, that everything will be alright, that you're here, his horrors are over.

"Oh, my love..." You run your fingers over him, suddenly mindful of the wound you'd inflicted yourself only moments ago.

In your inspection, you find many more, deep gouges and bitemarks that have festered, and your heart aches for him. How could this have happened? Who did this to him?

"Come, love, I have you now," you grasp his fur on his neck and lead him back to the river, careful not to touch the open sores in his sides yet.

He staggers into the rushing current, clear water turning black as he submerges, washing off his defeat and returning little by little to you.

You wade in after him, ripping a strip off your hem; how times had changed since last you did this for him, having now ruined two dresses to tend his wounds.

You soak the fabric and begin to dab away the grime and viscera, so that you can start to heal him with every spell your people know for such injuries.

It doesn't take long before his whines of pain become pleasurable, enjoying your touch and the cool water on his skin. His mind is less fraught now, more present, and before long he begins to panic. His sweet wife, his innocent wife, had seen him for what he truly is, a Lord of Beasts, monstrous and terrifying to behold, and here she was, running her gentle fingers over him as if he was the most beautiful creature she'd ever seen.

You notice his panic and immediately go to soothe him, rubbing circles over his muzzle, trying not to overthink just how strange the situation had become.

"It's okay, love, I'm here, you're okay," you whisper softly, "who did this to you, love?"

Trying to soothe him was proving difficult as anger begins to bubble in the pit of your stomach; who was responsible for this sorcery? You would rip them limb from limb, your gentle nature be damned.

That blasted Elf-Maia hybrid and her brute of a dog, he thinks bitterly, reliving his utter defeat once more.

"My darling, you can tell me, who did this to you? Transformed you this way?" Surely it was a curse that could be broken, that you could face together.

Oh. Oh, no. His blood runs cold. Yes, of course, that's what you mean; how were you to know he could transform himself at will, that this was a form he liked to take in battle. Used to like. It might be a while before he chose a wolfish form again, given everything that had happened with Lúthien.

He goes to stand, to leave the river and avoid your questioning, but his legs give out from under him. Your heart wrenches at the sight of your beloved suffering so, how it pained you.

"I have you, don't move yet," you say softly with an encouraging smile. "I've got you."

More murmuring in Quenya, pressing your hands to his wounds, feeling your energy flow into him, all of your efforts were enough to finally restore him, and you both emerge from the river into the cool night air, sodden and freezing.

He collapses on the river bank, with you quick to follow; your healing had taken a lot out of you. Shivering, you lean into him for his furnace-like warmth, blessedly finding him already nearly dry.

You're so tired, your questions can wait until after you've rested, and so you do.

It is still hours before dawn when you wake to the unfamiliar sensation of warm silky fur on your cheek, lining your body, encompassing you in a blissful heat.

Fear jolts any sleepiness from your mind, and you try to stand. But his great limbs keep you from moving, and he rumbles his disapproval deep in his chest.

Suddenly you remember.

"Mairon?" You whisper, "darling, how do you feel?"

I was fine. His words are still unspoken, heard directly in your mind.

"Was? Can I help, love?" You worry that your work is not done, that perhaps there are ills that you have not yet healed.

Go back to sleep, your presence is soothing, my sweet.

"I can soothe you while awake!" Your tone is indignant and his chest quakes with what sounds like laughter, if you're not mistaken.

I didn't say you could not, but now you're awake, there are other urges I'd rather have you satisfy, Uthaessel.

Other urges... you blush as you realise what he means. He only calls you by that epithet when he craves you so particularly, that nothing else might sate him but hours between your thighs. 'Temptation', indeed.

"Well, you've recovered quickly." You laugh, brushing his side and finding his gaping wounds already healed over.

"And while you're like this, my darling, I'm not quite sure how that would work." You do have an idea, but it might be... uncomfortable.

He groans, deep in his chest, making your whole body vibrate with it; maybe a little discomfort wouldn't be so bad?

I have many ideas, precious one, all you need to do is lie there and relax for me...

He rolls you over, encircling you wholly with his powerful frame. He is so massive that he dwarfs you twice, thrice over. You look down and your eyes widen, blood rushing to your cheeks; how is that going to fit?

In an effort to slow him down, you ask him again, "how did this happen, love? You couldn't tell me before, would you tell me now?"

He sighs, a massive huff of breath that seems to scold you for disrupting his conquest of you.

It is no curse, that much you do not have to fear.

"If it is no curse, then what happened? Love, this is hardly natural, unless I am missing something important?" You laugh a little, nervously, wishing for him to assuage your anxiety.

He simply stares down at you with those bottomless golden eyes, concocting some explanation that will appease you.

How would you react, he wonders, if he told you he told you he is in fact Lord of Beasts and Werewolves, able to take on any form he wishes? Or would you prefer a simple lie, or the wiping of it from your mind altogether?

You are his wife, you are bound together in a way no force can sunder, you could not reject him if you tried. But he fears your disgust, would do anything to avoid it.

But the truth would set him free. No more lies, no more deception, he could truly be himself with you. The freedom that would afford, the burdens he would no longer have to carry alone.

So for once, he settles on the truth, mostly.

This is simply one of the forms I can take. You know I am no Elf, I can do things your kind could only dream of.

He nuzzles your neck, licking a long stripe up the sensitive flesh between your ear and your collarbone.

"I know that," you whimper, his rough tongue laving your throat, making your toes curl into the dirt. "But this is new, this is-" a whine escapes your lips as he nips at your neck- "unnatural."

You feel his song in the depths of your soul, how sweetly he pines for you. Your soul cannot help but answer, harmonising with his every touch, until you are squirming under his iron embrace, pupils blown, arousal overtaking you quicker than it ever has before.

*******

His massive limbs cage you in, and panic begins to set in again; surely your husband would never hurt you, but in this state you weren't sure he had the control to keep his nature at bay.

"I need to know-" You brace against him, trying with all your might to release yourself from his roaming tongue, rasping over your skin; sharp teeth snared in your dress pull in one fluid motion and you're left bare under his gaze.

Need to know what, my pet? His tone is adoring as ever, but impatient; he knows what plagues your thoughts and he still isn't sure he wants you to know.

"Need to know... need to know who you are." You force out the words as he seeks out where to lick, where to bite, trying to swallow your pleas; he cocks his head, as if your question is a mystery.

You know who I am, love. His length begins to prod at you insistently, and you clench your thighs together, nervous at the thought of him claiming you like this, stalling for time even as the melody of his fëa seduces you.

"No... no, I don't think I do," You pant, fingers clutching at his neck, drawing him in and pulling him away, your body betraying your mind as you become more and more unsure of what you want from him.

"How? How can you change your face like that? Your entire being? I don't understand..." You trail off with a whine as he begins to worship your body with his tongue, covering your breasts with a swipe, dragging slowly lower until he finds your mound, gods you smell divine.

The bestial part of his mind begins to take over, ignoring your questioning, wrapped in the scent of you, the soft flesh under his tongue that he could so easily ruin with a drag of his teeth if he desired, your panting lips forming words that fall on deaf ears; the only sounds he now listens for are your moans and pleas.

"Mairon... I need to know..." You realise far too late that this is no longer your husband, and that the beast before you is going to rut you into the earth without pity.

Terror grips you, hand in hand with arousal, and the fresh wetness between your legs spurs him on, groaning at the scent of you, all he can think of as you writhe beneath him. You try to get a better look at the flesh that is about to ravage you, but it is hidden in his fur. Perhaps that is for the best, you muse, far-off in your thoughts now, waiting for him to ruin you.

He sniffs at the dampness between your thighs, a groan rumbling through him as he bears his sharp canines, dangerous and gleaming even in the dark of the night; perhaps especially so. Even with the forest at your fingertips, all you can smell is him, musk and smoke and iron, he smells like himself but stronger, every inch of him reeking of the man you love but more pungent, inescapable; a heady mix that does nothing to dispel the coil in your abdomen that he will delight to spring.

"My love, darling, please, Mairon..." you try every which way to get his attention, to bring him back to you.

You shiver as he laps at you, tasting you every which way, your nipples peaking as he runs his tongue over them before letting them chill in the night's cool breeze. He lowers himself slightly to wrap himself around you more completely, your soft skin now pressed against his thick fur, the perfect companion to stave off the chill.

You feel him pant against your neck, his thick length weeping against your legs, firmly pressed shut as you rock slightly to relieve the terrible pressure he has built in your clit.

You bury your face in the green foliage under your head, still pressing your thighs together as if he will yet be denied. He noses at your jaw, demanding your attention; pressing his long teeth against your throat, demanding your obedience.

The inhuman face gazing down on you does nothing to dispel the visceral fear that grips you. This is your husband, the man you love, whose soul you share; but none of this seems to matter now, as empty golden eyes stare you down, awaiting the inevitable.

Tears of fear begin to fall unbidden as your heart hammers in your chest, as you realise that despite every instinct in you telling you to run, you still want him, and he knows it.

The second you loosen your thigh muscles, he is there with his tongue, licking and sucking and making your toes curl. He is too rough, too fast, and before long a tiny nip at your clit sends stars behind your eyes, warmth exploding and cascading through you.

With you distracted at your peak, he takes his opportunity.

Hot breath on your face, soft fur under your fingers, giving you purchase, grounding you, a white hot pain at your mound-

Your scream echoes through the forest as he buries himself within you, no gentleness, just brutal force.

He allows you a moment to accommodate him, but it would take many more to truly adjust to his monstrous size. He pulls back, your tiny sigh of relief cut short as he thrusts back in, deeper, longer, stroking every inch of you.

You feel a tendril of his mind caress yours, and you reach for it, cling to it, make his power your own as you channel every intelligible thought into not being spilt apart.

As his power and your healing magic do their work, the blazing pain lessens, relieved to a dull ache, that only invites him to do his worst.

He would tear you apart, put you back together, over and over if he could. As he reaches the height of his pleasure, he is merciless, rutting you like a mindless animal, emptying and filling you quicker than you can draw breath, gasping around the sheer inhuman size of him.

And you enjoy it.

As the pain recedes, all you can think is of his cock filling you over and over, tongue rasping everywhere he can reach, guttural groans punctuating every thrust, as you drag your nails down his forearms, desperate to ground yourself in any sensation not emanating from your heated core.

With an unearthly growl, his thick hot seed paints your insides, filling you to bursting, and the coil in your abdomen does indeed spring again; as he comes down from his own high, his mind returns to him piece by piece, and he realises what he has put you through. You quake around him, whimpering and clinging to him, nails deep in his heavily muscled back.

He licks the tears from your face gently, still engulfed in your wet heat, unwilling to be parted just yet. He rears up to get a look at how well you take him, to see how you stretch and mould for him.

That is all he wants after all, for you to be moulded by him, for him.

He nuzzles your neck as you lie exhausted underneath him.

Love... precious girl... my Uthaessel... did so well for me...

You give him a sleepy smile, idly running your fingers through the fur on his chest, suddenly overcome with the urge to sleep for a week.

When he can, he slips out of you, curling you into his side, as his seed drips between your thighs. He'll clean you up later, he thinks, but perhaps for now he'll just watch you sleep.

*******

When you wake, he has already transformed himself, smooth skin and golden hair that you love so much, but your sticky thighs remind you uncomfortably of what happened last night.

You crane your neck to look at him, to assure yourself it is really him. He gives you that same gentle adoring smile he always does; your heart melts as you can't help but return it, but your questions still plague you. He had never told you he could take the guise of a beast, and you worry that something wicked lies under that glorious visage.

"Mairon..." You try to keep your tone neutral, but he knows your heart too well.

"I know, love," he gathers you to him, resting his chin on your head. "Can we not? At least for now."

You do wonder whether to indulge him, but the suspicions gnawing at your gut will not cease.

"I want to know... I need to know what happened."

You expect him to fight you on it tooth and nail, but he vowed to himself last night, the truth would out. Mostly.

And so he tells you. His humiliation at the hands of Lúthien and Huan, his command over beasts and vampires, even where he really comes from. Your eyes widen and your breath shallows with each detail, reaching a crescendo as he tells you of Morgoth, his voice low as if his master could hear him even here.

"A servant of Morgoth?" You can't catch your breath, you've long stood up, pacing and wringing your hands more urgently the longer you let him speak.

"Why are you telling me this?" You stop still and ask sharply, making him wince at the tone you've never used on him before.

"You asked, my love," he looks confused, as if the truth weren't more horrifying than your husband simply liking to spend time in wolf's clothing.

"But why are you telling me now? You could have continued your vile deception? Kept me in the dark?" Your stomach drops as you wonder aloud his intentions.

"You've had everything you wanted from me, that must be it. And now you tell me you are a servant of the Enemy-" your thoughts are interrupted as he now stands and moves to take your hands in his.

A churning fear overtakes your anger as you realise he is the one your people only speak of in hushed whispers, his very name accursed to the tongue: Sauron.

"You... you are the terror my people fear in these woods. You have plagued them, stolen them, and then you come to me and ply me with your sweetness and lies?"

"You misjudge me, my love. I will never stop wanting you," he implores, as he takes your face in his hand, willing you to be silent and listen.

"My appetite for you will never be sated, such is my devotion. I could never cast you aside, could never let you leave me." He sounds so damn sincere, your heart pleads with you to listen while your head tells you to run.

"You wanted the truth, so I gave it to you. If I did not think you could handle it, I would not have troubled you with such evils." His eyes search yours for any sign you understand his plight. "I told you my name, I never lied to you. But I could not tell you about Melkor in the beginning, how could I, when you would have scorned me?"

"You don't know that," you mutter, still shell-shocked, world in pieces, but offended by the accusation all the same.

"If this is your reaction, then I am sure you would."

"Are you blaming me? Lies by omission are still lies!" Your indignation stirs you a little, your mind screaming at you to fight back.

He does you the courtesy to look mollified slightly, before grasping your hands once more, tracing circles in your palm with his thumb.

"Amarië, my sweet, even your name is too good for me, how could I have won you if you had known the company I am forced to keep?"

It's that imploring look, the gentle tone, and-

"Forced? What do you mean, forced?" Even in your shell-shocked anger, the notion of your husband forced to do anything hurts you deeply.

"I hardly serve Him willingly, my love, no one does. His will is..." he searches for the right word, the word that will convince you, "insurmountable."

You take a deep breath through your nose, finding nothing in your mind but the sweet scent of smoke and musk and iron, the scent of your husband that softens your heart once more.

Your deep exhale releases much of the tension within you; of course, he is but an unwilling participant in Morgoth's designs, of course.

"This is your one chance, Mairon, you have one chance to tell me everything, no lies, no deceit." You raise your eyebrows at him, daring him to argue, but he simply sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I have done, love, you know everything."

"No. Details, and lots of them, now."

It takes from sunrise to sunset, but he tells you everything. How Morgoth seduced him to his will; how He alone has the power to change Middle Earth in the way your lover has planned; how Sauron realised far too late that His destruction was not the balance he craved.

"And you cannot leave Him?" Your voice is hoarse after so much time spent listening, but you have to ask.

Sauron grimaces, an expression that twists his pretty face, makes it almost unrecognisable.

"One does not simply leave Melkor's service." His tongue picks over the words carefully, watching for your reaction.

"Morgoth." You interject, "his name is Morgoth." After all the heartbreak and destruction He has wrought on your kind, you cannot stand to hear his divine name spoken once more.

"Forgive me, love, it is... difficult to break the habit when He himself would flay me for even thinking the name your people have given him." He cannot help but smirk a moment when your face drops, and you reach for him as if to comfort him.

He takes you in his golden embrace, holding you tightly as if you'd leave him the moment you were free.

"I was so afeared that you would reject my affections, I could not possibly tell you, and as time passed, I could not bear to ruin what we share." He nuzzles your neck affectionately, as if he has already won you over.

You are so torn, your heart and head fighting a losing battle. If he truly is an unwilling accomplice, then he needs you now more than ever to face the darkness. But the darkness was a terror you never planned on witnessing in all its treachery.

It is a long time before you can forgive his lies, but the truth will indeed set you both free.

#sauron x reader #annatar x reader #halbrand x reader #the rings of power #i still imagine first age sauron as like charlie's annatar when he's still in his beige robes #like sorry jack but he has me in a chokehold #also i have mad overthought this one #i started writing it on halloween and it has taken this long for me to be even remotely happy with it #so uhh im sorry 😅🙈 there's quite a bit of plot if you squint #my fic

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heylittleriotact · 2 months ago

Text

𝐢 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 19

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐀𝐔

𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐬, 𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐠𝐨 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫.

Read below or on ao3

Rook had been helping him set up a service in the main chapel when Vorgoth materialized seemingly out of nowhere, while she was setting out the RESERVED chair covers on the first two rows for the family.

"Rook."

She flinched and whipped around at the sound of the enigmatic manager's stoic baritone, nearly dropping the stack of green velvet fabric draped over her forearm. "Fuck!"

Emmrich glanced up from arranging the urn spray around the base of the handsome brass urn containing the cremated remains of Mr. Herbert Knox.

If Vorgoth had taken issue with Rook's language, they made no indication of it, their face - solemn and bearing same sort of ageless wisdom as hewn granite - remained as unreadable and emotionless as ever.

"Sorry Vorgoth–" Rook said, shoulders slackening. "I didn't hear you come in."

"The maintenance staff has done well to ensure that the hinges of the chapel doors are appropriately lubricated: they shall be commended for their diligence."

"Errr... uh... good?" Rook offered, smiling weakly.

"Is your duty pressing?" Vorgoth asked, though it wasn't really asking - they had a knack for re-arranging your priorities as they saw fit. "It falls to me that I must discuss a matter of great importance with you."

Emmrich might as well have been invisible for all the notice Vorgoth had spared him - as far as they were concerned, they and Rook were the only ones in the room. He frowned and went back to primping the blooms and leaves around the base of the urn that was set out on a set of nesting cherry wood tables at the front of the chapel, keeping an ear open: what important matter?

"Uh... yeah, sure." Rook sounded just as caught off guard by this as Emmrich was. Hopefully it was nothing unpleasant... another chargeback, or Maker forbid a family complaint, but he very much doubted it: Rook was so detail oriented in her work, and had an undeniable aptitude for knowing how to meet the bereaved on their level in terms of communication and body language. It seemed so unlikely that she would be capable of wronging a family so intensely.

"Follow me." Their head turned with a smoothness that was distinctly un-human, and their dark and unsettling black eyes met Emmrich's. "Take care, Volkarin."

"And you, Vorgoth."

"Pray for me," Rook mouthed to Emmrich after Vorgoth turned and started silently retreating up the aisle, and then she followed them.

She wasn't gone long - slightly more than ten minutes had passed before she slipped back through the chapel doors, heaving a huge sigh as she ensured they were closed behind her.

"Is everything all right, darling?" Emmrich felt his stomach twist unpleasantly at the grim expression on Rook's face. He set down the photo frame he was wiping down with a dust cloth and met her halfway down the aisle.

"They put me on probation," she said sullenly, eyes turned downwards as if she couldn't bring herself to look at him. "I guess a family I helped with an obituary complained because it ran in the Times with a pretty big mistake that I didn't catch. It's not my fucking fault they gave me a printed copy of a typed obituary to re-type - if they'd sent me the actual Word document… who fucking prints a typed document?”

"Probation?" Emmrich repeated in disbelief: how could such action be justifiable when the employee in question was held in high esteem by colleagues and management alike?

"Yup. Gotta straighten up and fly right, I guess..."

She still couldn't look at him, her shoulders were rounded with the weight of shame, all of the wind stolen from her typically confident, self-assured sails.

His heart ached at the sight of her in such a state, and then ached further when it occurred to him that, of course - yes - they had dinner plans that night to celebrate Rook passing her road test and getting her license. This certainly put a damper on the occasion...

"Rook..." He drew her into a hug in the middle of the serene space and stroked her soft black hair as he held her close in an attempt to comfort her.

Oh dear, the poor thing... he could feel her trembling against him.

"Sweetheart..." He pulled back enough to get a look at her, fully expecting tearful eyes and wet cheeks only to find himself gazing into Rook’s beaming face. “Wha—?”

“I love fucking with you.” She grinned. “No probation for this bitch: Flora is being let go and they're so pleased with the quality of my work and my 'gumption' that they want to move me permanently to Pemberly Crossing!”

Brat. You are a brat, Rook Ingellvar, playing games with an old man’s heart-rate like that, he wanted to say.

Instead he collapsed in on himself with a relieved sigh, and groaned when she hugged him tightly. “I suppose that’s why you’ve been charged with training Bryony for the past week...”

“Pfffft - that could mean anything around here.” Rook let go and swept past him, a bounce in her step that had not been there earlier as she practically sashayed back to the front rows of chairs and resumed her task. “Been here long enough to know that this place hemorrhages staff - the turnover is atrocious. I’m surprised they’re firing Flora at all when we’re as short-staffed as we are already.”

“This profession isn’t for everybody,” Emmrich conceded, lips pressing in a thin line. He returned to the nesting tables and began polishing the glass of the old picture frame once more. “My heart goes out to Flora, however: she’s a hard worker and means well…” he propped the frame on the table with the gentlest of hands and regarded a black and white version of a young Mr. Knox smiling cheerfully back at him on the occasion of his wedding day, Mrs. Knox - equally as gleeful - on his arm looking resplendent in a white gown with a wide skirt that emphasized her tiny waist - as was popular the popular fashion back then. It was a moment frozen in time that tugged at something heavy and old deep within the recesses of his heart - a yearning for that same kind of utterly uncontainable joy. He blinked and looked up. "If she was only a bit more... careful..."

"Yeah, well that's exactly how she screwed herself in the end," Rook finished with the reserved signs and began triangling the protruding tissues of the boxes of Kleenex that occupied every few seats of the first two rows.

"Dear me, do you know what happened?"

He could feel badly for Flora and still sate his curiosity as to what exactly she'd done to get fired - Emmrich Volkarin was a man of principles, but like most morticians, could not resist the intrigue of a juicy piece of gossip...

“A family changed their mind at the viewing and told her they wanted their loved one’s wedding ring removed after the viewing and placed in the urn, but she didn’t note that anywhere, so it was cremated with him because the crem operator didn’t know.”

Emmrich tsk-ed and shook his head: the margin for error in the funeral profession was slim indeed, but many mistakes were correctable - if they were caught in time, or soothed over with an appropriate level of contrition (and the offer of a sizeable sum knocked off the final bill.) Unfortunately it was impossible to un-cremate an irreplaceable personal item like a wedding band…

These were the sort of mistakes that cut deep and lingered in their tragic magnitude: now not only was the family dealing with the loss of their loved one, but an item of great sentimental value that belonged to them was now gone forever too.

Mistakes like that were why people didn’t trust morticians - thought them greedy and detached from the personal circumstances of those they professed to care for. Such mistakes gave the entire profession a bad rap for the sheer fact that they were the sort of mistakes that made it into review websites and made rounds on social media… sometimes they even finding their way into the local news.

So rarely was the public graced with the words of melancholy gratitude that tended to arrive months after the funeral in the form of a heartfelt thank you card that was tacked to a cork board in the staff room and promptly forgotten…

“Dear oh dear…” he tutted again, setting up the final photo frame: Mr. Knox, a few years older than he was in his wedding photo, wearing a colourful party hat and grinning proudly at the camera, a small child balanced on each of his knees: a boy and a girl, both giddy and surely stuffed with sugar, wearing party hats of their own. Toys and balloons of every colour littered the shag carpet around them and a banner was pinned to the floral wallpaper behind them that read ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’.

“Don’t feel too bad for Flora,” Rook scoffed “This is great for me: Pemberly is less central but it’s still one of the busier chapels, and I’m being trusted with loads more responsibility because there’s no other admins or staff permanently scheduled there. Plus it's closer to my apartment.”

“I won’t get to see you as often...” he said more to the photo frame and less to Rook.

“Huh?”

“I said I won’t get to see you as often: I always start my day at this chapel and only go to Pemberly if I’m scheduled there for arrangements or a service.”

Rook fiddled with a particularly resistant sheet of Kleenex. “You’re at Pemberly at least a few days a week,” she pointed out. “Also, I’m your girlfriend: you see me all the time anyway.”

He turned from the table to look at her, his fingers twining together as he stood alone at the front of the chapel with his perfectly coiffed hair and his immaculate three-piece suit. "I never tire of seeing you, Rook..."

He meant it... oh, Andraste, he meant it with all his heart and soul...

Rook, clearly too exhilarated by Vorgoth's news and in no mood for sentimentality, finished with the last box of Kleenex and straightened. "Always so charming," she smiled and straightened her skirt. "I should probably go see if Bryony needs help or has any questions - I'll be back in a few minutes to help finish up, okay?" She entered his orbit again, the cosmic mystery that she was, and brushed her lips against his, squeezing his hand before departing through the side door of the chapel.

"Yeah-yeah-yeah... I'd put a ring on that finger if I was you, mister."

Emmrich turned to see the ghost of Mr. Knox, elderly and dressed for comfort in loafers and a roomy cardigan, standing a few feet in front of the nesting tables, admiring the display that was his urn, the flowers, and the many photos showcasing his wonderful life, hands deep in the pockets of his baggy khaki trousers.

"Oh..." he started, "We've... I'm sorry, Mr. Knox - I didn't realize you were here. I apologize if any of what you saw or heard was inappropriate."

A wrinkled hand emerged from the pocket to wave away Emmrich's apology before vanishing once more. "Call me Herb."

“My apologies… Herb.”

“Nah, nothing to apologize for. But you should take my advice and wife that one up - Rook, I think I heard you call her?” He waited for Emmrich to nod in confirmation before continuing. “When I was young, my Daddy always told me ‘Herb, find yourself a good gal that’ll keep you on your toes and make you laugh and you’ll never wake up unhappy a day in your life’ - smart man, my Daddy. That’s him there, with me and the first fish I ever caught.” He pointed at one of the oldest photos, smile widening.

“Sound advice from the old man,” he reiterated. “Found my precious Pearl because of it.” He chuckled through a wheezing cough and pushed the same heavy black rectangular glasses he wore for much of his life up the bridge of his nose. “Well… more likely she found me, truth be told,” he admitted. “Yeah-yeah… made a hell of a life together, we did…”

From the vital statistics information and the will provided by Herb’s children, Emmrich knew that Pearl had predeceased her husband by only a year - in fact they had used McDermott & Rafferty for her service as well, though Emmrich hadn’t been the funeral director to work with the family then.

It was not at all uncommon to see elderly, long-married couples pass within months of one another: the phenomenon was poorly studied and largely unexplained, but it made perfect sense to Emmrich that after so many years happily spent with another person, their sudden absence would rend a void in one’s heart that was far too profound to recover from at that age: ‘Where one goes, the other will surely soon follow…’ was the phrase commonly uttered in mortuary circles.

“It looks that way,” Emmrich agreed. “You - both of you - must have been terribly proud of your family.”

Herb tilted his head from side to side in half-agreement. “There were bumps in the road - like everything else in life. I had Alzheimer’s for the past eight years and couldn’t count to ten or tell you when the last time I took a shit, but even though I didn’t know who the hell I was ninety-percent of the time… I always knew Pearl.” His translucent, ethereal eyes landed on the wedding photo and the muscles in his cheek twitched under his constant smile. “She loved me right to the very end, even when I was useless… and I loved her.”

“A lucky - but rare - fate."

Herb emitted another raspy, crackling laugh and threw back his head. “Damn right, fella! So take my advice and marry that Rook gal - you’re just as good for her as she is for you. Old men like me can suss these things out, don’t you know?”

“Perhaps…” Emmrich felt heat rise in his cheeks. “We’ve only been together a short time, and as much as I’d love—”

Herb interrupted him when he pointed at another photo - one of himself and Pearl, both of them young and wearing jeans, leaning against the hood of a massive old Chevy sedan. They were clearly at a drive-in movie.

“That was our first date: ‘Terrified’ with Rob Lauren, Steve Drexel, and Tracy Olsen - terrible film - just awful… but entirely unforgettable because I watched it with her. I knew the second she got frightened and spilled Cherry Coke all over my lap that she was the love of my life. Popped the question a week later, and that was that: she made me laugh and kept me on my toes… and I never woke up unhappy a day in my life after that.”

“Things are a bit different, these days, I’m afraid—” Emmrich argued without really knowing why.

“You are afraid,” Herb pointed out without a crooked and knowing grin. “That’s love: the real stuff at least… scares you shitless - at least it should.” He made to clap Emmrich’s shoulder, but his hand just passed through his back and drifted out of his chest instead, causing Emmrich to go rigid as goosebumps erupted on his skin at the chilling sensation that he never got used to. “Huh... that was freaky...” Herb shoved the hand back in his pocket. “Anywho, you’ve entertained the lovesick ramblings of an old man long enough, fella, and I know you’ve got work to do, so I won’t keep you. Besides - I’ve got a date with my wife.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows furtively, a doggish tilt to his thin lips.

“You don’t want to stay for the service?”

“No, sir! Got a whole afterlife to look forward to, don’t I? Why waste it hanging around here like a bump on a log?” He shrugged and began shuffling towards the door, pausing only to wag an arthritic finger at Emmrich and say, “Marry her, son!” Before he disappeared through the solid wood.

Her hair was sleek and silky, flat-ironed straight and misted with some product that smelled faintly of tangerines and made it shine beautifully.

It was a different look for her: her hair had natural wave to it that she usually emphasized with various styling tools and sprays. The straightness of it might have looked lank and severe if not for the way it streamed and swayed like black water in an underground creek whenever she moved her head.

Emmrich found it endlessly fascinating how healthy she somehow managed to keep her hair despite insisting on colouring it with dye that came out of a box purchased from the grocery store...

An inky handful of strands slipped over her shoulder as she perused the cocktail menu in front of her, and she tucked them behind her ear - the easy, habitual motion nearly driving the breath from his lungs like it had hundreds of times before… yet as her pale hand returned to its place on her lap she remained completely unexplained; rendering him tongue-tied and at a loss.

She was just a person, wasn’t she? Like any one of the billions of other people walking the Earth. Just a person with flaws and faults and strange habits and idiosyncrasies; likes and dislikes; a history… and a future.

How had she evaded him for so long? He wondered as her dark Merlot stained lips split in a glowing smile of delight as she realized - then explained - that all of the cocktails were named for places and characters from Miyazaki films.

He’d done well, then - made the right choice in venue. It pained him greatly that this was his first time treating her to dinner: an excuse to finally pull out all of the elaborate stops and do what he did best by calling in the odd favour owed that it took to get a last minute reservation at a place like this, booking a private car for the evening that would take them anywhere they wanted at a moment's notice; lavishing compliments and praises upon her from the moment she appeared in the doorway of her apartment to greet him, draped in a clingy burgundy dress with thin straps and black roses patterned all over.

A gift - small, humble, simple: another new plant for her collection, was produced from behind his back and slipped into her waiting hands, the emerald he had given her catching the light of the entryway as her feminine fingers curled around the glazed clay pot and she beamed at him like he had been personally responsible for fabricating the cosmos.

He knelt to buckle the thin straps of the black block-heel shoes she wore, then helped her put on her coat before guiding her into the hallway and to the car, offering her his arm as they descended the stairs, holding every door for her, and ensuring she was safe and comfortable in the hired black sedan before rounding the other side - the quintessential gentleman.

It was no different than how he comported himself for any other romantic partner he'd had in the past: such habits were ingrained in him after so many years... came to him with the same memorized ease that Rook had displayed when she hooked her hair behind her ear: be complimentary, but not patronizing; put her comfort and safety above your own at all times; don't stare at her breasts - no matter how enticing they may be in that little red thing she's wearing; and ensure that there will be no lingering uncertainty in her mind at the end of the evening how much you adore her.

Oddly enough, despite the relatively comfortable routine they'd found themselves in as a couple, he found himself somewhat nervous. Why? He couldn't quite say, but as she continued to pontificate about the seemingly boundless virtues of Studio Ghibli films, he felt the whisper of those first-date - first real date - jitters feather down his spine.

“You’re… beautiful…” he heard the words trundle gracelessly off the end of his thick tongue, not vetted and phrased with the brand of deliberate eloquence he was so careful to truss all of his sentiments in.

His fingertips tip-tapped against his thighs and Rook’s chattering came to an abrupt halt, her mouth rounding into a cute little ‘o’ accompanied by the most endearing flush of colour visible on her cheeks even in the dim light of the restaurant.

She hooked the strand of hair behind her ear again, despite it not having fallen out of place. “Thank you…” she said. “You’re not so bad either—” her eyes wandered over him, pupils wide due to the dark environment. “— all black is a good look for you…”

The way her eyes cut through him: equal parts hunger and adoration - had he ever felt so… wanted?

His stomach flip-flopped on itself, and he was reminded of how dearly he loved throwing himself at the mercy of her boundless kindnesses and affirmations; how desperately he loved the very act of being cherished by her, tempered by the ever-growing inclination to draw her closer still - physically and otherwise - so that she may never deign to part from him.

Because if he was being truthful with himself - which was admittedly a challenge most days due to his proclivity for romanticizing everything from a wilting flower to a jar of peanut butter with the lid left off - he could not imagine life without her… did not care to imagine life without her.

She niggled and teased and prodded and minimized and deflected and demurred - and during idle moments in his day he often found himself thinking back to that night after the Wintersend party when she asked him to hold her wrists against the wall and take her… how she had melted for him: warm, wet clay beneath him as he catered to her whim and played her game…

Perhaps she would like more of that. Perhaps that was the secret to securing her heart in perpetuity…

A discussion for another time, he decided, his internal monologue deafened by the race of his heart pushing blood directly into his cock at the hazy memory of Rook squirming against the wall as he teased and tormented her with his fingers. Tonight is about her accomplishments.

“Thank you, darling - I’m so glad you think so. Now, have you any idea what you might like to drink?”

“Mmmm… I think I’ll have the Princess Kaguya. What about you?” She leaned her elbows on the table and cradled her face in her hands.

“I’m afraid it’ll be a spur of the moment decision,” Emmrich remarked, noting the server approaching their table.

“Any questions about this evening’s menu?” The server inquired politely, having given them some time to settle in and look over the menu.

"We'll start with some cocktails, I think," Emmrich said, flipping the page of the black leather bound cocktail menu. "The lady will have the Princess Kaguya, and I'll have a gin martini please: Roku gin, olive garnish, light on the vermouth if you don't mind - feel free to simply stroll the open bottle past the cocktail shaker." He closed the menu and offered the waiter what he knew to be a charming smile. He could feel Rook's eyes burning into him across the table and immediately regretted his initiative: he was of the remnants of a time where it was expected that a gentleman ordered in restaurants on behalf of the lady - as a courtesy, and not due to any archaic belief that she wasn’t capable.

“Very good, sir.” The waiter politely bowed his head and departed from their table.

“No one’s uh… ever ordered something for me before,” her blank expression gave way to a flattered one. “… or referred to me as ‘the lady’ for that matter. It’s kind of nice.”

Though he didn’t think it possible, his heart softened further at her words: the fact that these social conventions that seemed so simple and obvious to him were exotic and unknown to her conjured a melancholy sense of pride within him that had him reaching over the table to extend his hand to her.

“As it so happens, I take great enjoyment in making you feel good, darling…” he clasped her delicate little fingers in his own and raised them to brush his lips against her knuckles, keeping his eyes on hers. “I shall endeavour to continue doing so…”

A shiver visibly coursed through her, causing her to sit up a little straighter, though he couldn’t be certain if it was due to his words or the tickle of the soft hairs of his moustache trailing over her skin.

“This is nice!” She blurted suddenly. “The restaurant, I mean. You’ve… you’ve been here before?”

Oh yes. He’d been to Ukiyo a handful of times with a handful of dates over the span of a handful of years, but tonight marked the first time the spirit of the upscale fine dining establishment’s moniker truly seemed appropriate: ‘the floating world’ was the literal translation of the word: in essence, to dwell completely in the present moment, free of the banal frustrations and tribulations of day-to-day life; a quasi-dreamlike state of being where one openly embraced the unconventional and slightly surreal, rather than attempting to rationalize it away under the guise of pragmatism.

A novel foundation for a contemporary culinary experience, and clever marketing to boot: more often than not these days, it seemed the concepts behind such establishments required their clientele to possess a philosophy major if they ever hoped to truly understand the deep intrinsic meaning behind the mouthful of aged sablefish they were paying an unholy amount of money to masticate and transform into waste.

The fact that the menu was a curated split selection of fish and vegan fare meant Emmrich could take just about anyone here and not be stuck eating a salad - a definite boon.

The place itself wasn’t Ukiyo, however - it was a celebrated and impeccably decorated restaurant with black walls and ceilings, white maple hardwood flooring, and just enough little black bistro tables scattered around that it didn’t quite look chintzy, but also lacked the volume of available place settings that would put it in the same category as the popular fine dining chains - as if the phrase 'popular fine dining chains' in and of itself wasn’t an appalling paradox.

Small koi ponds framed the perimeter of the room, illuminated by gentle pink and blue lights, the soft burbling of their water only occasionally audible over ambient conversation and the noises one would expect in any dining room; a backing track to the hip but non-intrusive electronic music that was just slightly too loud for Emmrich’s tastes.

This place wasn’t Ukiyo… she was.

“Not like this,” he answered, unwilling to let go of her hand… unwilling to part from the sheer kindness that was her touch - no one was staring or gawping… not in a place so dim and private amongst the deliberately arranged planters of broad Aralia. “Never with someone like you, Rook.”

What had gotten into him? Why was he brimming with such intense emotion?

Their first formal ‘date’ - surely… surely that was why. The novelty of something new… yes, yes, of course...

"Got it - this is where you take people you're hoping to get lucky with."

As he opened his mouth in scandalized retort, she pulled her hand from his - damn - and snagged her napkin, unfurling it and draping it over her lap.

"Oh come on - you've gotta stop letting me get such a rise out of you: it's too easy!" The black silken sheet of her hair rippled as she laughed. "I don't mean anything that I say, you know that, right? I don't usually make jokes at people I actually like - I'm just comfortable around you." She paused then, as if something had occurred to her. "Unless it actually bothers you, in which case I can totally tone it down.”

He considered her words and knew that she would - if he only asked. But why would he want to do that? A version of Rook who was constantly minding herself around him? Walking on eggshells and diminishing her true self in an effort to avoid bruising his fragile ego?

He got the sense that she was more acquainted with such behaviour than not...

"Of course not." He offered his thanks and another polite smile to the waiter who returned with their drinks and set them down, waiting until he was out of earshot before continuing. "You... make me laugh and keep me on my toes, and do you want to know something else, darling?"

A dead man told me I ought to marry you, today - and I'm sorely tempted to take his advice...

"What?" She looked down at the cherry-blossom-pink coloured drink before her that was topped with white foam and garnished with a twist of lemon peel, "Mmmm...."

"I wouldn't have you any other way - so no more talk of being anything other then exactly who you are... even if sometimes your wit has me wondering if I should put you over my knee."

Oh.

I said that aloud, didn't I?

Rook was staring at him: mouth slightly agape, the lemon peel gripped between her thumb and forefinger in mid-air. Shocked.

"I didn't - it's... it's not that I–" He felt his cheeks go an unbecoming shade of splotchy puce as he attempted to recover. "I would never raise - lift - raise a- a hand to you–!"

Rook's mouth closed and the lemon peel was deposited on the dark wood table. She rubbed her fingertips together and then sniffed them almost as if she didn't realize she was doing it.

"Fine then - do it."

"I would never disrespect a woman–" he forged on. "– such crass behaviour is simply not who I am: I may be an orphan, but I was raised with values and moral fibre and–" Emmrich faltered only a few words into the improvised defense of his good character that had lined up on his tongue, frowning deeply. "– and... what?"

"If you have such strong feelings about my attitude, don't keep them to yourself on my account." She shrugged and finally sipped the cocktail, licking her lips before saying, "Fuck that's good."

Flummoxed, Emmrich tried again, "Perhaps you misheard me, which is why I'm apologizing–"

"For what? You said sometimes you wanna toss me over your knee when I drive you up the wall, and I said go for it: I heard you perfectly well - I'm not fucking stupid, Emmrich." Another dainty little sip. followed by another exclamation about how good the drink was.

"Now, I didn't imply that–!"

"Honestly, you could pretty much do whatever you wanted to me and I'd let you. For starters, you're that fucking hot and I'm that fucking attracted to you, and beyond that: I trust you more than I trust my own mother, which... I mean - okay I guess the bar is low there - but still: you wanna leave a few handprints on my ass? Be my guest."

"Rook, I'm not looking to impose some sort of... of... alternative dynamic on our relationship–"

Oh dear, there it was - the mental image courtesy of the imagination of a filthy old man materializing in his mind's eye: Rook, naked and posed over his lap while he was fully clothed, squirming against him as he soothed the tender pink flesh of her rear with gentle touches from the same hand that had reddened them to begin with...

The self-indulgent, maladaptive daydreams of one lost in fantasy. Preposterous.

But so... so difficult to ignore...

"Will you buy me a car?"

She blinked. Smiled. Sipped her dainty cocktail like she already knew the answer because she - crafty little thing - was well aware that she held all the cards.

Emmrich heard himself sigh and lifted his martini glass to his lips, greeted by the scent of gin and the faintest whiff of vermouth.

A ruby necklace... an emerald ring... a car - some people would call it 'being taken advantage of' but Emmrich was of the mind that it was something else entirely: assurance. The unspoken promise that being with him meant that Rook would never want for anything again - necessities or otherwise - for he may not possess traits that marked him worthy of love and affection and companionship, but he could most certainly provide for the one who chose to tether themselves to him.

It was the least that Emmrich 'You're-A-Lot' Volkarin, could do. Especially for the gorgeous young thing half his age, sitting across from him, who had so casually offered to realize his lurid and perverse fantasies.

Marry her, son!

"Do you have any particular make in mind?"

She beamed.

#emmrook #emmrich x rook #emmrich romance #emmrich smut #emmrich volkarin #emmrich #dragon age emmrich #modern au #funeral home au #rook ingellvar #rook is an edgy mall goth #i heard people are dying to get in here #dragon age #datv #dragon age the veilguard #v writes #this one was fun to write and silly #there's plot if you squint

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