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emmg · 2 days ago

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Aftertaste

Chapter 8: House of Cards, House of Glass

Emmrich sucks at online grocery shopping. An old friend shows up uninvited. A VHS tape resurfaces.

Read below or on ao3

“…it is, frankly, hysterical that a nation constructed brick by bloodied brick atop the backs of enslaved people now finds the mere whisper of reparations not only outrageous, but somehow offensive to its delicate sensibilities…”

Dorian looks downright cinematic on TV. All sharp cheekbones, curled moustache, and righteous fury. He gestures emphatically, rings flashing with every movement, his heavy watch nearly clocking a particularly overeager journalist in the face. Not a coincidence, Rook notes. That guy’s from a network known for its conservative spin.

Magister Dorian Pavus, the banner declares beneath his infuriated face. Rook snorts. Yeah, she thinks, and I did coke with him in a supply closet at a party that had a string quartet and valet parking.

She flips the channel and checks her phone. Still nothing. When Emmrich asked her to housesit while he vanished off to a conference, she didn't think she'd be sitting quite so literally. She figured there’d be some casual roaming. Maybe a trip to the kitchen. Raiding his liquor stash. Making an omelette, or at least setting off the smoke detector in the attempt.

But no. Emmrich, that sneaky bastard, had prepped everything. She hasn’t had to do anything. Which is nice. Thoughtful. Until she realizes she’s now watching a confused Uber driver play scavenger hunt in a Whole Foods on Emmrich’s dime.

What could possibly take forty minutes to buy?

what are you makin him buy?? – 11:00am

The essentials. �� 11:02am

bro u don’t even use uber – 11:02am

That’s not true. I’ve taken one. – 11:05am

yeah. with me. bcuz i installed it. and u kept calling the driver “sir” and tipped him cash – 11:05am

It was polite. And faster. – 11:06am

u handed him a 20 and said godspeed like u were sending him to war – 11:06am

He looked nervous. – 11:06am

he was delivering froyo on the side. not storming normandy – 11:06am

I need to head in. – 11:07am

slay king – 11:07am

Pardon? – 11:10am

slay. king. go do ur lil magic man speech. werk the mic. cast fireball @ the audience– 11:10am

I’m putting the phone away now. – 11:11am

critical damage :( – 11:11am

An hour later, there’s a timid knock at the door.

She opens it to find a thoroughly bewildered young man, looking like he’s just emerged from a jungle expedition but with plastic bags. He scratches his head.

“So, uh… can you help me unload the car? There’s... five melons.”

“FIVE MELONS?” she barks.

He nods, embarrassed. “I thought it was weird too. But the tip was good so…”

“Five. Melons.” She stares past him at his sad little Hyundai.

A small, spiteful part of her hopes that half of those melons are currently pulp in his trunk. Because at least then, she’d only have to figure out what to do with 2.5 unnecessary melons.

But that’s not even the full horror, she realizes after she’s hauled everything inside.

Naturally, she documents the crime scene. Snaps a few pics for posterity... and blackmail. Emmrich will get these later, probably during a Very Serious Meeting, just to suffer.

Ten onions.

Ten.

What does he think is going to happen? That she’s going to make soup for the whole block? Commune-style onion enlightenment?

Two whole boxes of arugula. Which, fine, she does like salad, but this is enough arugula to legally qualify as a hedge.

So Emmrich doesn't understand how quantities work when ordering groceries online. Cute.

Pistachios. Tomatoes. Two aggressively sad energy drinks (she softens slightly—he remembered the kind she likes, which is sweet.)

Snacks… but like, dad-approved snacks. Dried chickpeas. Protein bars that taste like punishment.

Pre-cooked pasta.

That last one breaks her.

She takes a picture of the pasta and sends it with the very appropriate caption:

?????

So this man trusts her to house-sit, to presumably suck his dick without biting it off, to use his credit card, but not… to boil water??

The disrespect is palpable.

She survives the melon siege. Barely.

The rest of the week passes in a blur of quiet domesticity that feels suspiciously like nesting. Rook loafs around in increasingly fewer clothes, terrorizes Emmrich’s espresso machine into compliance, and develops a deeply parasitic relationship with his heated floors. The man has four kinds of linen spray and not a single pack of instant noodles. To her, it sounds like an ecosystem in need of rebalancing.

By day four, she’s out of things to snack on, out of things to judge, and out of patience waiting for his face to pop up in her notifications. She pokes around the house. Not out of nosiness, she tells herself, but in search of entertainment. Maybe pistachios. Maybe—hypothetically—proof that Emmrich once made a bad decision that didn’t involve ten onions and arugula hoarding.

What she finds is worse.

It is, without question, a complete coincidence that she does come across it at all. A cosmic accident. She’s digging around for a charger or maybe just snooping—who’s to say—when she stumbles across a small stack of dusty VHS tapes. No labels beyond a few dates, written in Emmrich’s careful handwriting. Suspiciously nondescript. Obviously, she puts one in. As any rational person with zero self-control would.

Later, she’s going to give him hell for still owning a functioning VHS player. Maybe accuse him of running a secret Blockbuster out of his living room. Maybe tease him until he blushes that soft, flustered pink and tries to change the subject by offering her tea.

Then—

Oh. Oh no.

Well, well, well.

The screen flickers and suddenly there he is. Emmrich, younger by at least three decades and looking like he just wandered off the set of an educational video on how to be adorable. His hair is a little too floppy, his face is criminally symmetrical, and the mustache... oh, the mustache. It’s not just present, it’s confident. It believes in itself. It looks like it applied for a small business loan.

“HA!” Rook snorts, laughter exploding out of her nose with such force she briefly forgets how to breathe. Her sinuses light up like a Wintersend tree. Tears stream. Worth it.

On the screen, Baby Emmrich crosses his legs like he’s trying to win Miss Congeniality, then folds his hands in his lap with the gentle poise of a man who absolutely says “please” and “thank you” to customer service reps. His eyes sparkle. His smile is soft. She wants to kiss him and hug him and possibly stage an intervention about the facial hair.

She stares at his moustache and feels an overwhelming urge to chase him down with a comb and scissors. She cannot, in any dimension known to science, reconcile the creature on the screen with the Emmrich she knows. Because her Emmrich, the one with the silver hair, the hundred-dollar cardigans, the poetry collection habit, is gentle and absurdly polite and whispers thank you thank you thank you like she’s granting him absolution every time she goes down on him. This Emmrich? The one on the screen? This is a different man entirely. This is a man who clearly walked into a barbershop and said, with conviction, “Give me the budget adult film special.” And they did. Oh, they did.

He’s sweet as pie, but he looks like a vintage Stranger Danger warning.

“I believe it is important for partners to share both fears and dreams and—oh! A five-year plan, of course,” says Young Emmrich. “A successful partnership requires transparency, shared goals, and a healthy respect for one another’s—”

“You're supposed to talk about yourself, you unseasoned quinoa salad,” someone snaps from behind the camera.

“I am talking about myself,” he protests, all genuine confusion. “These are my values. My guiding principles.”

“No one gives a shit about your guiding principles, Emmrich. You're not running for office. You’re trying to get laid on Thedas Love Story, not join a monkhood.”

“Well, I fail to see how they can assess my long-term compatibility without understanding my personal philosophy on shared domestic vision.”

“You sound like a sentient textbook.”

Young Emmrich hesitates, visibly computing. “Should I mention my work in enzymatic aging markers?”

“Only if your dream date is already in the morgue.”

“I also brought visual aids,” he adds hopefully, pulling out a laminated chart.

"This is social self-sabotage on a cellular level. You're a fucking idiot."

"Johanna!"

“What? I’m just saying, the only thing you’re seducing here is the concept of abstinence.”

“Hold the camera straight, if you will,” Young Emmrich squeaks, right as the camera lurches down and aggressively zooms in on his crotch like it’s trying to identify a threat.

“At least now we’ve got a close-up of the Virgin Plains.”

“That is highly inappropriate, Johanna!”

“So is whatever’s going on with your pants, but here we are.”

The doorbell rings, then comes the jingle of keys and the soft click of tumblers turning. She lifts herself off the couch just enough to see through the glass panel in the door. A silhouette is there, just about to step inside.

Only Emmrich would ring the bell before unlocking his own door, she thinks, eyes still misty, laugh-tears clinging to the corners.

"Hey," she says.

"Oh," he replies, a little surprised. "Hello there, darling."

"You know you don’t have to ring to enter your own house."

He shifts from foot to foot, cheeks slightly pink as he slips off his lacquered shoes. "Well," he murmurs, almost apologetically, "I didn’t wish to disturb you."

He looks a little worn, she thinks, though the Mourn Watch had spared no expense, seating him in first class for both legs of the journey. Still, there’s a softness to his face, a faint shadow of stubble she almost never sees. He’s usually up long before her, his mornings beginning with the first slice of sunlight, immaculate and crisp by the time she stirs.

There’s something quietly tender in seeing him like this, undone at the edges. And she finds it oddly moving.

Then she remembers the tape.

Her grin sharpens like a knife honed on smugness. She crosses the room, all slow hips and worse intentions, and Emmrich’s eyes immediately narrow. He knows this look. It’s the same look she gave the last time she asked if he’d ever considered getting a tattoo on his ass “just for academic curiosity.”

“What is it?” he asks warily, the hairs on the back of his neck visibly standing at attention.

She hums, not talking at first. She helps him out of his jacket, unbuttoning it for him as, in the same glass panel, she sees the distorted reflection of his distrust.

“I was just wondering...” she begins sweetly, faux-innocent.

“About?” he asks, carefully neutral.

“Oh, just…” She looks up at him sweetly, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder. “What would you say is the optimal number of times to use the phrase ‘shared domestic vision’ on a first date?”

His brows draw together.

“What?”

“You know. Hypothetically. If you were, say, trying to seduce someone. Through the lens of mutual financial planning and… personal mission statements.”

“I—Rook.”

“Because some people might say that’s bold. Audacious, even.” Her eyes sparkle with evil. “Personally, I think it’s avant-garde. Revolutionary. Very suburban oracle energy.”

“Rook,” he says again, firmer now.

She tilts her head, pure faux confusion. “What? I’m just making conversation.”

His gaze sharpens. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” she protests. “I merely accidentally stumbled across a very tasteful vintage documentary on the psychological development of horny academics.”

“Rook.”

“And I have to say,” she presses on, delighting in every twitch of panic creeping up his neck, “the subject was just so… poised. So earnest. I was especially moved by the visual aids.”

He closes his eyes like if he concentrates hard enough he can astral-project out of this moment.

She gasps, mock surprise. “Wait. Do you still have the pie chart? Or did whoever filmed this tragedy frame it after the taping?”

“You watched it.”

“I studied it,” she corrects. “Frankly, I think it should be required viewing. I laughed, I cried, I learned about the tragic decline of casual suitors who don’t respect long-term compatibility models.”

Emmrich covers his face with one hand. “Those tapes were not meant for—”

“The public? Posterity?"

He groans.

She trails a finger down his arm. “I liked the moustache, by the way. Very... confident. Like it paid taxes separately.”

He exhales like he’s being exorcised.

“You know what really got me, though?” she whispers, leaning up into his ear. “That little monologue about transparency. You said it like you were reciting scripture. I almost stood up and saluted with my wet panties.”

He turns to look at her. Mournfully. Like one confronting a prophecy he once laughed at.

The blush is deeper now. “Did it cut off before or after—”

“Oh, we saw the plains, Professor,” she says, tapping his chest twice. “They were… unsullied.”

She laughs and laughs, richly and helplessly. Laughs until it spills out of her like music. She pulls him down, fingers laced behind his neck, and kisses his tired, dear, blushing face. She laughs into his mouth, into the soft curve of his cheek, into the warm hollow of his throat.

A thousand kisses, scattered and haphazard, between whispered declarations. How pretty he was. How unbearably pretty he still is. Because the world, careless and loud, has somehow failed to mention it enough.

"Anyway," she says, pulling back. "I have all your mail." She gestures toward a bedraggled publicity tote she’s repurposed into a makeshift post office, now swinging off the coat rack. “Stuffed it all in that thing. Easy access and whatnot. You get so much of it, by the way.”

Emmrich wrinkles his nose, just slightly, but she can see the civil war happening behind his polite smile. Poor man. The existential horror of unfiled flyers and dog-eared envelopes. She’s seen his bathroom cabinet; that thing has a label-maker soul.

"Thank you, dear," he says at last, very delicately. "Would you mind—"

"Plopping it on the kitchen table?"

"Quite so."

She plants a quick kiss on his cheek, then watches him begin his slow, noble trek upstairs, suitcase bumping behind him.

And just like that, it hits her: Emmrich is shaped like a yoga instructor’s wet dream. All lean lines and core strength, at least aesthetically. She wonders, if the stars aligned and she said screw it and married the man, would he be able to carry her over the threshold? Or would it be more of a one-step lunge followed by an awkward collapse and a very symbolic spinal injury?

“Maybe we’ll just skip the lift and opt for a knowing nod,” she mutters, snorting as she heads to the kitchen.

She can't help herself. As she lays out the envelopes on the kitchen table, she starts sorting through them. Real mail to the left, junk flyers and promo crap to the right. A small touch, but one he’ll appreciate.

One envelope in particular catches her eye. It’s already been half-torn open, just enough for the edge of an invitation card to peek out. Thick cardstock, formal font. Fancy. From the Mourn Watch. A gala, maybe? Wouldn't be surprising; they do love their black-tie theatrics.

She flips it over and notices a small, hurried B scrawled in the corner. Office routing code; Bellara must have gotten it first, thought it important enough to send to his home. That alone makes her more curious. She tilts the envelope, trying to sneak a better look inside, but there’s no way to see more without fully tearing it open.

She hovers for a second, then sighs and sets it down. Temptation denied. For now.

Just as she’s turning away, the doorbell rings.

A beat later, there’s a thud.

Then another.

Someone is kicking the door.

Probably the delivery guy back for a surprise sixth melon, she thinks bitterly, already bristling. A flicker of anger flares in her chest. Emmrich takes care of his things, his house. Whoever’s kicking the door is definitely leaving a mark, and she doesn’t like that one bit.

"What?" she snaps, yanking the door open.

The woman on the other side doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she gives her a slow once-over, one eyebrow lifting behind a pair of oddly-shaped, designer sunglasses. Her hair is the exact same shade as Emmrich’s, but that’s where the similarities end. Her outfit is all sharp lines and understated power. The watch on her wrist isn’t showy, but Rook knows what it is, and knows it costs more than her car.

“The help, I presume?” the woman says at last.

Rook stares. "Ex-fucking-scuse me?"

“Relax. I’m just saying, Volkarin’s always been useless at dealing with his own crap. I figured he’d finally hired someone to do it for him. Now move.”

And, somehow, despite being a full head shorter, she elbows her aside.

“VOLKARIN!” she bellows up the stairs like a warhorn. “YOU SPINELESS PIECE OF SHIT, I SAW YOUR CAR. DON’T THINK YOU CAN HIDE. NOT FROM ME. NOT FROM MY LAWYERS.”

Rook’s still standing in the doorway, blinking. Her brain whirs, stalls, then clicks hard into gear.

“Wait. You’re her,” she says, dumbly.

The woman behind all those thick, court-issued envelopes Emmrich’s been dodging like they’re stuffed with snakes and subpoenas. The one whose name makes him physically recoil like someone just dropped ice water down his spine. Johanna Hezenkoss. Recently acquitted. Dramatically unbothered. And apparently, not one to disappear just because someone wishes very hard that she would.

“Fucking leave,” Rook says instinctively, but it lands with all the force of a feather tossed into a hurricane. At the same time, from the stairs above, Emmrich’s voice echoes:

“Johanna?”

She’s already ignoring both of them.

Emmrich barrels down the staircase, top buttons undone, face pale and throat working like he’s halfway to choking. His hands are already wringing themselves raw.

“Johanna,” he says again, more breath than voice. “What are you doing here?”

Rook steps in front of him before she even thinks about it, a reflex. He looks wrecked, and something in her coils up, defensive and angry.

Johanna doesn’t miss a beat. “What do you think, you leafy little traitor?” she snaps. “You tried to bury me. All those years, all that work, everything we built, and then you go crawling off to polish your precious reputation and throw me to the wolves. For what? For tenure? For clout? You revoked mine. You dragged my name through the mud.”

“I didn’t slander you,” Emmrich mutters.

No—hisses, Rook realizes. Actually hisses. It's the most venom she's ever heard from him.

“You did this to yourself,” he says, eyes locked on Johanna’s. “Gain-of-function research? What were you thinking? We’re supposed to be better. We don’t gamble with life.”

Johanna’s lip curls. “Says the coward too scared to live just because it ends eventually.”

“You did this to yourself, Johanna.”

Her expression barely flickers, but Rook can tell, he’s struck something.

“You went ahead with unregulated gain-of-function experiments on human samples. You submitted falsified immunoresponse data to the ethics board, and when they flagged it, you bypassed the review entirely and ran your trials offshore.”

He’s not shouting. If anything, he’s too calm now.

“You exposed a live viral vector to controlled human stem lines without protocol clearance. That’s not just reckless, it’s illegal. You lied about the strain’s stability, and you forged a collaborator’s signature to push it through peer review. That’s academic fraud, criminal negligence, and biological misconduct at minimum.”

He swallows, jaw tight. “And you did it under my name. You thought I’d be too careful, too polite, too cowardly to say anything. But people could have died, Johanna. You don’t get to call it visionary just because it nearly worked.”

Johanna laughs. Once.

“Oh, come on,” she spits. “You think you’re clean? You were right there beside me until it got too hot for you. Don’t pretend this was some moral revelation. You just didn’t want your tenure review committee getting twitchy. Don't lie to me now.”

Rook glances between them, pulse climbing. She doesn’t know what shocks her more; that Johanna did all this… or that Emmrich didn’t tell her any of it.

Then again, why would he?

Johanna leans forward. “You chose safety. Comfort. Cowardice. I chose to push the edge.”

“And you fell off it,” Emmrich says, finally. “You just do not want to admit it.”

Johanna lifts a finger; whether to wag it in his face or jab it into his eye socket is anyone’s guess. Rook’s leaning toward both. But before she follows through, Johanna pauses. Composes herself.

“I’m going to bleed you dry, Volkarin,” she says, softly, sing-song.

She turns to go, but Rook can’t help herself.

“Your lipstick’s smudged,” she says.

Johanna pauses. “What?”

“I’ll show you where.” Rook reaches into her pocket, fishes around for a beat too long, then pulls out her middle finger and slowly traces the shape of her mouth.

Johanna snorts. “Charming. Maybe you can lend him your spine. Maker knows he’s fresh out. Honestly? Fucking you might be the only smart thing he’s done in years, since that's obviously what's going on here."

And just like that, she is gone, heels clicking off into the distance, her car engine snarling to life and peeling down the street.

The second the sound fades, Emmrich crumples. He doesn’t fall so much as folds. Slumps onto the bottom stair like the strings holding him up just snapped. His face drops into his hands.

For a moment, Rook thinks he’s crying. But then she sees it, his chest rising and falling far too fast. Too shallow. His left leg jittering, bouncing at the knee like it’s trying to launch itself into orbit.

“Hey,” she says gently, kneeling beside him, not sure if she’s too close or not close enough. “Hey. Hey. Breathe. Just breathe.”

“Breathe,” Emmrich echoes, voice thready.

She reaches for his hands, peels them away from his face. His fingers are ice cold. She grips them, maybe a bit too hard, but he grips back, and they just sit there, squeezing each other tight enough to block circulation, like that’s the thing keeping them tethered to the floor.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “You’re okay. You’re here.”

“Slow, deep,” he says under his breath, like he’s trying to reprogram his own lungs.

She echoes it back. “Slow, deep. Slow… deep.” Again. And again. A little mantra between them, anchoring them both until his shoulders stop trembling and the warmth returns to his palms.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, a memory stirs: twelve years old, the ocean, the pull of the undertow. Salt water in her lungs. The way panic hit like a freight train. How she crawled onto the shore and vomited seawater, throat raw, ribs aching. How the taste of brine clung to her tongue for days afterward. How she never swam again.

That same fear curls in her chest now; not hers exactly, but his, seeping into her like fog. Like he’s drowning beside her, and she remembers too well what that feels like.

"Was that the woman from the tape?" she asks, suddenly. The thought hits her like a pin slipping into place. That vague itch of familiarity. Recognition. That’s what had been tugging at her all along.

Emmrich exhales a soft, breathy laugh. It's not quite bitter, not quite amused. Just… hollow.

"Yes," he whispers. “Thirty years of friendship. Gone.”

She glances at him, their hands still knotted together. “Would you like to tell me about her?”

There’s a pause. He looks down, suddenly shy. His thumbs trace slow, absent circles along the back of her hand, like the motion helps him think. Or maybe like he’s not sure what to do with her odd sort of kindness.

Then he exhales, long and quiet. “Yes. I believe I would.”

"All right. Good," she says gently. "Because I want to listen."

So she does.

#look at me actually updating lmfao #emmrook #emmrich x rook #emmrich volkarin #dragon age the veilguard #datv #modern au

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emmg · 5 days ago

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A very detailed summary of this magnum opus of mine lmfao:

Trivialities

rings the bell I have completed the filthy, smutty, absolutely plotless breeding kink one-shot that the Emmrook tag needs more of. May hell reserve me a throne.

Emmrich wants. He wants, but he doesn’t want to admit to wanting.

Rating: Explicit

Under the cut or on Ao3

Toodeloo~

She watches Emmrich crawl around on his hands and knees, her teeth sinking into her apple with a satisfying crunch.

"Did I not caution you against chasing after Assan?" His voice emerges from somewhere beneath his desk, muffled and laden with mild exasperation.

In the corner, Manfred hisses—a small, sheepish sound that seems to shrink him even further into the shadows.

"I do not have an assortment of phalanges at my disposal," Emmrich continues, shifting lower, his voice growing tighter as he leans closer to the floor to fish under the desk. "At least," he adds, huffing as his hand gropes blindly, "none in stock that would suit your particular proportions."

Another hiss—this one softer, forlorn. Manfred’s skull droops forward, a picture of contrition, if such a thing were possible. She bites back a snort, savoring the sight.

With a sigh and a quiet, triumphant "A-ha," Emmrich sits back on his knees, holding two skeletal toes between his fingers.

She tries, and fails, to piece together the connection between Manfred’s detached toes beneath Emmrich’s desk and whatever incident involved Assan.

Manfred hisses again, brighter this time.

"Don’t torment the child," she says, finishing her apple, tossing the core aside with an idle flick of her wrist.

"Manfred is not a child," Emmrich protests, slowly rising to his full height and brushing off his knees. His finger points toward the poor creature, long and accusatory. "And he knows better. Off you go, my boy. I’ll see to these in the morning."

Manfred hesitates, his sockets wide with something that might be pleading.

"Lucanis is boiling coffee in the kitchen," she offers, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially. "Sooo much steam."

A delighted hiss escapes, and Manfred scuttles out of the laboratory in a peculiar, gleeful waddle.

"Oof," she says, watching the door swing shut. "Not much discipline there. Brats would eat you alive."

Emmrich dismisses her with a wave, already pivoting toward the desk to pull open a drawer. From his breast pocket, he retrieves a handkerchief, unfolding it with care before wrapping the toes delicately within its folds. The bundle is tucked neatly into the drawer, which he slides shut with an air of finality. "Please," he says, "I am more than capable of managing children, thank you kindly."

"Are you?"

"Of course," he says, a touch too quickly.

"Ah yes," she quips, "because the Grand Necropolis is simply teeming with children. How silly of me to forget such a perfectly normal detail."

"There are… some, occasionally," he stammers, a faint crack in his usually polished delivery.

She shrugs, one shoulder rolling. "If you say so. I just assumed you avoided them out of preference."

A peculiar silence follows, taut yet not unkind. His gaze snaps toward her, brief and searching, before falling away again, as if it might find solace in the floorboards. When he finally speaks, his voice has softened, dipping into a quieter register. "Not out of choice, my darling," he murmurs. "Simply circumstance."

Oh, she thinks, and again, oh, as something sharp and unexpected twists behind her ribs. Her eyes sting faintly, and for once, she feels the unwelcome prickle of remorse. Perhaps she’s growing a conscience, she muses bitterly, or at least the beginnings of one. Watching him now, as he continues to speak—his voice light, his words polite, as if nothing has shifted—she notes the faint slump of his shoulders, the thin veneer of ease stretched too tight over something raw.

She has mourned possibilities before, small, inconsequential what-ifs. But never anything as vast, as shattering, as this. He sinks into his chair, the grand throne of the room, resting his elbows on the arms and pressing his fingers to his temples.

''Today has been a very long day,'' he says softly.

The apple’s last tartness clings to her tongue, bitter now. She swallows it down and moves to him. Lowering herself to her knees at his feet, she clasps her hands together atop his knee, forming a small, steady platform. She rests her chin there, tilting her head just so, her lashes fluttering as she peers at him through them.

"Dear?" he asks, his tone weary but still holding a thread of curiosity.

"Take off your pants," she says, her voice syrupy sweet, the smile she offers far too innocent to be trusted.

His sigh is long and drawn, bordering on a groan. "How romantic," he says dryly.

"Very," she answers, cheerful. "Hm?"

He doesn’t move. Instead, his hand rises, a quiet counterpoint to her insistence. He traces the slope of her nose, lingering on the faint upturn at the tip, as though contemplating something entirely unrelated. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle, but firm. "You do not need to do anything for me, darling," he says. "As I’ve mentioned, today has been particularly tiresome."

"Hm," she hums again, unperturbed. "I have a pocket knife."

His eyes narrow, suspicion sneaking through the exhaustion. "This is expensive fabric."

"Lovely," she says brightly. "Then take them off."

The command hardly leaves her lips before her hands move of their own accord, reaching for his belt. She doesn’t need to look. By now, her fingers know the notch he prefers, the button he always fastens. The movements are second nature, mechanical and swift, her fingertips tracing familiar grooves as though the leather and thread carry the weight of memory.

She tugs the fabric down, just enough to bare him, enough to slide her cold palms against his thighs and press them there, skin to skin. He jolts at the contact, his breath catching, and she snickers softly as her palms begin to warm against his startled flesh.

Once it's warmed up, she licks her palm, slicking it thoroughly before wrapping her hand firmly around him, her fingers gripping him with what she hopes is just the right amount of pressure as she begins stroking. The weight of him feels substantial in her hand, half-hard but responding immediately to her touch, twitching with each slow pass. Her knees protest the position, a dull ache spreading, but she ignores it, shifting her weight back slightly onto her ankles to ease the strain without losing her focus.

When his cock pulses against her palm, she leans in, letting her lips brush over the flushed head before taking him into her mouth. He’s still soft enough to be pliable, but as her tongue swirls around him, tasting the salty bead that’s already gathered, she feels him swell and stiffen with each careful motion. She licks along the underside, tracing the vein there, her hand stroking the base as she takes him deeper, inch by inch, until her lips meet her fist.

It’s an intimate sensation, feeling him come fully to life in her mouth, growing harder, heavier, the stretch of him against her cheeks making her hollow them further. Her tongue presses firmly against him as she sucks, pulling back just enough to tease the head with her lips before swallowing him again. The lewd sounds echoes in her skull, spurring her on as her free hand drifts to his thigh, fingers tracing light circles over his skin.

When she finally pulls off, it’s slow and languid, a wet suctioning pop breaking the tension as his cock slips free from her lips. She lets it rest against her mouth, brushing her lips back and forth along the sensitive ridge, her breath hot against him. Her eyes flick up to meet his, her tongue darting out to flick against him again.

As she speaks, the vibrations from her words hum against him, rippling through his cock, and she knows he feels it; sees it in the sharp intake of his breath, the shudder that runs through his body, the way his thigh tightens beneath her touch. It’s intoxicating, watching him respond so viscerally, and she imagines how much more she could pull from him. If she dug her nails into his thigh, just hard enough to mark him, dragged them down his skin to peel back a layer of flesh mixed with muscle, just one, just enough to peer beneath.

"It’s almost a shame," she murmurs.

"What is?" Emmrich asks, his voice strained. His cheeks are flushed a deep pink, and his gaze wavers, flickering between her hand wrapped firmly around him and the way her lips hover just shy of him, glistening with spit and filth.

His hand rises to her face, brushing her cheek in a gentle stroke before moving upward, fingers threading into her hair. He pets her slowly, smoothing back the wild strands clinging to her sweat-slicked skin. She feels the static against her scalp, a faint crackling as strands cling to his fingers, then stick to his wrist, before snapping away with each pass. His thumb grazes her temple, ever soft, just as his hand keeps moving with quiet persistence, brushing her hair aside as if to clear his view.

She doesn’t answer immediately, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip in a show of feigned thoughtfulness. Her gaze flicks up to meet his before she leans back in, her lips parting as she takes him into her mouth once more. Her tongue presses firmly along the underside of his cock, dragging slowly as she sucks him deeper. Her hand strokes what she can’t yet fit, her fingers curling tightly around his slick length, pumping him in time with the slow bob of her head.

The heat of him fills her mouth, the stretch just this side of too much, but she doesn’t stop. Instead, she shifts, angling her head and relaxing her jaw as she pushes him further, past her molars, until the head of his cock nudges against her throat. She swallows instinctively, the tight contraction around him drawing a sharp groan from his lips. His fingers tighten in her hair, seizing in a way that’s no longer gentle. She feels the twitch of his hand, the slight forward push as if he wants to guide her down, bury himself deeper, to feel more of that constriction.

And, oh, he seems to like that, the way his hips jerk just slightly forward, chasing the sensation. His breath hitches audibly, and she can feel the tremor that runs through him as he briefly lets his need overtake him, pressing her head down further for just a moment. Her throat tightens again, but the guttural sound he makes is worth it.

Just as quickly, he catches himself, his grip loosening as his fingers relax in her hair, returning to the gentle petting from before. He strokes her scalp almost too quickly, as if the motion is meant to distract himself.

There’s an unpolished quality to her technique, something crude in the way her hand grips him, sometimes too firm, other times not enough. Her pace wavers, alternating between confident strokes and hesitant experimentation. She’s aware of the occasional stumble, the uneven flow, or the unintended scrape of her teeth that makes him hiss softly. And she knows it might be too much at times, imperfect and messy, but he’s been nothing if not patient.

Patient, like he was the very first time he parted her legs, his hands gentle even as she winced and bled under him. Patient as he coaxed her through the awkward, trembling motions of this wet, slick, and utterly shameless intimacy. Patient still, as she navigates her way through the ropes of mastering this act, finding a rhythm that is as much hers as it is his.

"As I was saying," she resumes, breathless as she pulls back, her lips red, and draws in air through clenched teeth. "It's almost a shame you didn’t get to sow your wild oats."

Above her, Emmrich frowns, brows knitting together. "Rook."

"Have a few vigorous harvests," she continues, her grin unapologetically wicked.

He exhales, long and slow. "I believe your metaphors require a touch more finesse, darling."

"Pollinate a few flowers," she goes on, undeterred, her fingers stroking him faster now, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. "Spread some fertilizer. You know, to take advantage of a fertile plot."

His lips twitch, though his frown remains in place. "Rook—"

"Plow the fields, till the soil," she interrupts, her thumb teasing over the sensitive tip of his cock with each pass. "Sow your seed far and wide. Make a bumper crop of—"

"That’s quite enough," he says, his tone clipped but far from cold.

She rolls her eyes. "Fine. Let’s try another. Play hide the eggplant until you’ve got a garden full of… succulent produce."

"Good gods, Rook," he mutters, his voice tightening as his hand briefly rakes through his hair. "Do you catalog these in secret, waiting for the most inopportune moment to unleash them?"

"Not at all. They come naturally," she says cheerfully. "Shove the zucchini into the compost."

"That one, in particular, manages to defy both logic and practical application, my dear."

"Tenderize the meat for the stew. Lay some bricks, build a whole… legacy foundation."

Emmrich groans, though it’s unclear whether it’s from her words or her hand. "Your creativity is boundless, if utterly unhinged," he sputters, though his cock twitches again in her grip.

"Come on," she teases, leaning in closer, her lips brushing against him as she whispers, "Dip the ladle in the soup. Spread the batter until it’s… dripping off the edges. Fill the eclairs. Frost the—"

"This is obscene," he cuts her off, and his voice cracks slightly as he does.

"Obscenely good," she purrs, stroking him faster. "And you're still hard. Clearly I'm onto something."

"Unsurprising," he replies. "Your persistence is impossible to ignore."

She pauses, her tongue darting out to taste him again, but instead of taking him back into her mouth, she sits back slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper that’s almost too soft to hear. "You should do that with me," she says, her words laced with heat. "Plant some tulips. Wiggle the worm in fresh dirt. Mix the genes cocktail for… posterity."

For a moment, his jaw slackens, hanging loose in a way that almost defies anatomy, like a snake caught mid-unhinge, preparing to devour her whole—she, the hapless gerbil frozen in the scrutiny of his gaze. She half expects him to scold her, to find some refined, cutting retort, but then, instead, she feels it. The sharp twitch of his cock in her hand, pulsing hot and insistent against her palm. His breath, warm and ragged, fans over her face as he leans down.

Before she can react, his arms hook firmly under hers as he hoists her, dragging her upward. The world tilts, and she’s pressed flush against his chest. His hands span her waist as he maneuvers her into his lap, pulling her down against him so that she can feel every inch of him pressed intimately against her.

He kisses her with a roughness that feels displaced given who he is, who she knows him to be, his mouth landing on her jaw first, catching the edge of her skin as she instinctively tilts her head. She feels the blunt press of his teeth through his lips, the almost-bite making her pulse spike as she shifts, adjusting herself, offering him her mouth fully. He takes it greedily, his kiss deeper than she’s ever felt from him. It’s sloppy, wet, and just before he pulls away for a breath, she feels the drag of his tongue tracing the underside of her top teeth.

"Did you know," he begins whispering. He doesn’t kiss her again, but the proximity of his mouth forces hers to move slightly with his, her lips following the enunciation of his words as though he’s speaking through her. "Healthy teeth and gums reflect impeccable nutrition, fastidious hygiene, and the absence of chronic ailments."

His hand finds her chin as he tilts her head back just enough to part her lips further. "And yours, my darling," he asserts, "are pearly white. Perfectly straight. A testament to enviable care. Open up." Her jaw obeys without hesitation, her mouth widening as his smile flickers, quiet and satisfied. "My very good girl," he murmurs, briefly caressing her cheek with the back of his hand.

His thumb slips inside, curving over the bottom of her lower teeth, not harshly but with enough force that she feels it distinctly, the pad of his finger dragging over the smooth enamel as though he’s inspecting her. He makes a contemplative sound before withdrawing, utterly unhurried, and smears the faint sheen of her saliva across her lips as if applying a balm.

"Oh," she breathes, her tongue curling around the salt of his fingertip. She lets the taste linger, savoring it for just a moment before swallowing the sound. "I see."

Her hands find his face in turn, cradling it as she cocks her head to better study him. Slowly, she begins to recognize the undercurrent of a very particular want behind his words. He’s already assembling the pieces, the blueprint unfolding behind his eyes. That earlier "oh" leaves her lips again, drawn out this time, deepened by the heat pooling in her belly. Her thighs clench involuntarily around him as she straddles him, leaning more heavily into his warmth.

"Mm," she hums instead, dragging her own thumbs over his cheeks. "My teeth. Your eyes. Maybe even your hair?" She tilts her head, watching the way his expression changes, how the idea takes root, growing and twisting and morphing.

She sees the image forming in his mind as surely as if it were projected onto the firelit walls, and the thought draws her tighter against him. He’s painting this child already, with scrupulous brushstrokes, and she can’t resist the urge to reach out and dip her own fingers into the paint.

"Yours is so much lovelier," he objects softly, as though he is stating a fact rather than issuing a compliment. His fingers thread through her hair, combing through the strands.

His grip tightens subtly, winding the pale locks around his hand, pulling her head back until her throat is exposed.

"Yes," she agrees on a wheezing laugh. "It’s prettier than yours."

"And your bone structure," he continues, his breath skimming over her throat, warming the damp sheen of sweat that glistens there. "So symmetrical. A marker of stability, of optimal development. Fewer genetic mutations. Fewer environmental insults."

His fingers are explorers, prodding gently at the ridges of her skull as though mapping the contours of her being. "From your high cheekbones," he murmurs, his lips pressing a faint path along her jaw, "to the graceful curvature of your spine, the exquisite arch of your vertebrae."

What strange and delicate alchemy they might achieve. A rib, his or hers, sawn off cleanly. A braid of her hair, severed at the base with exacting care, coiled like a dead snake. The color of his eyes, drawn drop by meticulous drop, an aqueous tincture suspended in a vial, as though the shade alone could beget sight. Her chipped tooth, still warm from the gum. His breath, captured, preserved. A ribbon of her blood, vivid as crushed pomegranate, soaking through the blank, pristine plane of possibility.

His genius, wrenched untidily from his skull, whispered and cajoled into solidity, its formless brilliance molded into something tangible. Her arrogance, sly and sharp-edged, the necessary companion to his intellect; because genius, no matter how luminous, cannot thrive without the scaffolding of audacity.

"Just like that?" she asks, as she realizes, belatedly, the rhythm of her body, grinding, rocking against him in an unthinking cadence. "We’ll make it happen just like that?" Her hand slips between them, closing around his cock once more, dragging her grip along its length.

He hisses into her shoulder, his breath stuttering as his eyes flutter closed for a moment. "Perhaps," he manages, the word softened by a trace of breathlessness. His hips jerk against her hand, though the weight of her on top of him makes the motion shallow. "Or perhaps it will take time, and we will have to plan accordingly."

"How so?" she murmurs, shifting her body until her legs frame his thigh, her core pressing firmly against it. She begins to move, her hips rolling, grinding against the muscle. The heat builds, and she feels herself grow wet, wetter still, the fabric of her smallclothes clinging slickly, uncomfortably, to her cunt with each rut.

"Consistency," he stammers, his voice catching as his lips skim her throat, trembling against her skin. "I believe—consistency is key in such endeavors."

"Yes," she agrees, eager and giddy. "Yes, and we’ll be so very, very consistent."

She sighs, content, trying to press herself closer, to sink deeper into him, when his fingers, impatient and insistent, begin tapping against her hip. "Up, up, darling," he mumbles, already shifting beneath her. Before she can fully register the request, he’s moving, rising awkwardly even with her weight pressing down on him. She shuffles back as he stands, watching as he tucks himself back into his trousers.

Silence falls, just a beat too long, teetering on the edge of discomfort. His gaze fixes on her, unblinking, and before she can ask why, his hands come to her face, cupping it gently. He moves her head—left, right, then left again—as though searching for something, some bizarre glimmer he’s convinced might vanish if he doesn’t check. Whatever it is, he seems satisfied. Or uncertain. Or both.

One hand lingers, hovering near her temple. In her periphery, she sees his thumb curl inward, folding neatly into his palm before he snaps the tendon with a sharp crack. The sound echoes too close to her ear, and she exhales shakily, her breath hitching as a shiver crawls up her spine.

Her mind flickers back to that thumb, the firm press of it inside her mouth, the slow drag across her teeth. A stray thought worms its way forward: would her teeth make the same sound if he pulled them free, one by one? Not with the detached efficiency of tools, no, but with his nails, working each loose with loving care. She imagines the roots, slick with blood, pooling in his palm, the faint wet patter as they fall, one after another, against the hard glint of his rings.

He would soothe her after, murmuring, exquisite, my dear. His lips would find hers, kissing the ruined edge of her mouth. And then those teeth, her teeth, would cease to be hers entirely. He would polish them to an unearthly gleam, fracture them into malleable pieces, resetting them into new shapes; more rings for his fingers, perhaps, or small, intricate talismans. Artifacts of her, transfigured, as though she were nothing more than raw material awaiting his touch. And she is, isn't she? That's precisely what she is.

Emmrich tugs at her hands, and she follows without thought, stumbling once over the uneven edge of the rug, her laughter bubbling up. Always laughing—she cannot help it, just as he cannot help but lecture anytime an opportunity arises. Stupid, stupid girl she is around him, always, always laughing. Between them, there are words, or perhaps only the suggestion of words. She is certain she hears them, though they might be figments conjured by the rhythm of his steps, the insistence of his pull. Come, come, and yes, yes, whispered or merely imagined, drawing her toward his room the Lighthouse hides so well, the one tucked behind the great expanse of bookshelves.

She sits at the edge of his bed, her feet just brushing the floor, watching him as he looms above her. It clings to her, that gaze of his, like damp fabric, and she almost asks—what, what is it, why do you look at me like that—but before the words find their footing, he leans down. His lips touch hers, a fleeting, maddeningly sweet kiss, so brief it feels almost accidental. Then he straightens again, his hands moving to the buttons of his vest, as if the kiss had been nothing at all.

"Let me help," she offers, her hands already at his hips, tugging him closer.

"I would be ever so grateful," Emmrich says. The vest, she notices, is already off, discarded as though it had never been there. His fingers are now working at his cufflinks with the precision of someone determined not to waste a moment.

She grins. "Mm-hm."

His trousers hang low on his hips, precarious and loose, and with a single tug, she sends them pooling around his ankles. His cock is firm in her grasp before they even hit the floor. Her fingers curl around him, stroking slowly as she watches his eyes flutter shut for just a moment. She shuffles closer to the edge of the bed, her knees brushing against his thighs, urging him to close the gap entirely.

The sound he makes when she takes him into her mouth is anything but composed, a downright broken moan that tastes almost like a confession. The surprise of it fuels her, and she responds with one of her own, humming against him, the vibration sending a shudder through his body. Then, for one glorious moment, she feels it—his selfishness, finally set free, as his hand cradles the back of her head. He begins to move, his hips thrusting into the heat of her mouth.

The thrusts are shallow at first, cautious, but soon greediness takes over, and he drives deeper, a little faster. His breath catches, then whistles through his teeth, his groan breaking into something softer, needier, a small, desperate whimper. His cock presses further, burrowing against the back of her throat, his motions growing more erratic. She tastes him, salt and heat, leaking onto her tongue, and her body tenses in response, her nails digging into his thighs for balance.

He shivers, his body a taut line of tension, and for a moment, it seems as though he might lose himself entirely. Suddenly, his voice comes through, though she doesn't hear him at first. His hand softens, guiding her off him, though the drag of his cock across her chin leaves a wet, glistening trail. He is quick to wipe it away.

"As lovely as this is," Emmrich says, his voice roughened to a rasp that forces him to clear his throat, coughing lightly into his shoulder, "and it is, immensely so, I would like to gently redirect your efforts. If you’re agreeable, of course."

She snorts. "Oh, I’d be more than agreeable."

"Wonderful," he murmurs, smiling.

Her clothes are gone in a flurry, barely tossed aside before his mouth crashes onto hers, askew and hurried, his teeth grazing her lip, his tongue pressing insistently into her.

He crawls between her legs, settling heavily, and, briefly, she feels the shadow of her sweet Emmrich, her careful Emmrich, always so tender with her, so indulgent. But his hands give him away, moving with a kind of fevered urgency, fingers roving over her breasts, down her abdomen, between her thighs. He cups her sex and exhales sharply into her neck when he finds her wet, the sound torn from his throat as though it surprises him as much as it does her.

He doesn’t wait, doesn’t want to wait, or simply can't, and there’s something raw in the way his fingers tremble as he rubs her, his usual precision abandoned, his mind lost somewhere. She feels the heat of him, the head of his cock slick with moisture as it presses against her leg, insistently, clumsily.

"Emmrich, Emmrich," she whispers, her lips brushing his ear. "How about you redirect your efforts, hm?"

For a heartbeat, he stills, his body taut above her, and then his hand pulls away. She barely has time to register the loss before he grabs her knee, yanking it up and out, spreading her wide open for him. She yelps, then laughs; another breathless, ridiculous giggle, yet another in the long string of laughter she’s offered him today. It’s cut short as his cock drags through her folds, slick and hard, the blunt head catching against her entrance. Above her, his brow furrows, his jaw tight, and then he thrusts forward.

Finally, finally, finally, he fills her.

"Oh," she says, and the word tumbles out of her lips like a reflex, the only thing she seems capable of saying today, oh, oh, oh, punctuating her laughter and her gasps alike, as he begins to move.

Hot, quick, deep. He fucks her like a man undone, and it is fucking, no gentleness in it, none of the patience he usually lavishes upon her. This is something else entirely, each thrust driving the air from her lungs in uneven bursts.

"Consistency," she manages to choke out, her arms wrapping tightly around his back. "Didn’t you say something about consistency?"

He moans against her neck before his lips detach, trailing downward. His mouth finds her nipple, closing over it with a heat that makes her back arch, his tongue circling lazily after a long, indulgent suck. "Consistency," he says, though it sounds more like a pant, a gasp forced through clenched teeth. "Always consistency. The foundation of excellence. I would have you in the morning, before the day begins, leaving you loose-limbed and full, a pillow beneath your hips."

Their bodies stick together, sweat-slick, his skin peeling away from hers with a sound as sticky as honey, warm and cloying. She tastes it now, the salt of his sweat mingling with hers, dripping from her upper lip into her mouth. His hand moves blindly, curling beneath her knee to draw her leg up, folding it tight against her side. The shift in position makes her cunt clench around him, and he groans, deep and hoarse, his cock twitching against her inner walls. The stretch of him is maddening, matched only by the drag of his hips as the wiry hair at his base rubs against her clit with every thrust, every flush press of his body against hers.

"And then," he says, his voice breaking even as he presses forward, "at dinner, I would offer you something sweet. Figs, honey, almonds. Foods to heat the blood, to make your body ready, to make it more—" he thrusts sharply, and she whines like some kind of animal, "—receptive."

His mouth finds hers again, his words muffled against the slide of her tongue. "A drink," he whispers, his lips brushing hers, "of cinnamon, ginger, cloves."

His thumb presses past her lips, pushing down on her tongue, flattening it with just enough force to almost make her gag. "And—and," he stammers, his voice breaking as his body shudders, the tremor running from his chest to his shoulders, "I would feed you dates, one by one, from my own mouth."

He shifts, sitting up on his knees, his weight pressing into the bed as his thrusts quicken, growing erratic. His fingers dig into her hips, pulling her against him. His eyes flicker shut, his jaw tight, and she sees the tension rippling through him as he teeters on the edge. "And finally," he groans, "I would have you at night. Slowly, gently, while you’re half-asleep, sighing so sweetly in that way you do, my love. You would not have to lift a finger, I will take care of everything."

His gaze drops, riveted to the place where his cock drives into her, disappearing between her folds again and again, glistening with slick. One hand moves to her lower belly, pressing down, and she gasps at the sensation, knowing he can feel himself inside her. That thought seems to unravel him. He collapses forward, his chest flush against hers, his face burying into the crook of her neck. His hips jerk once, twice, and then she feels it, the first hot gush of his release, flooding her as he shudders above her. He keeps moving, his thrusts shallow, even as his spend leaks from her, coating her thighs in proof.

It takes him a long time, longer than before, to lift himself on trembling arms above her, but she doesn’t mind. Not the weight of his chest pressing too firmly against her small breasts, not the cooling sweat between them that begins to cling, itchy and uncomfortable. None of it matters. She kisses him wherever her lips can reach—his shoulder, his neck, the damp curve of his jaw—her fingers threading through his hair in repetitive strokes. Words trip from her lips, soft and disjointed, sounds more than sentences, but she thinks they’re something about how beautiful he is, how impossibly, unbearably beautiful.

At last, Emmrich stirs, pushing himself upright and allowing her ribcage to rise freely once more. Slowly, he rolls off her, his movements reluctant, as though loath to abandon her warmth entirely. As his cock slips from her, softened now, she feels the wetness that follows, a viscous spill.

His lips find her forehead, pressing there with a gentle insistence. His mouth is dry, faintly cracked—worry marks from her teeth, perhaps—and she feels the faint roughness with each kiss as he moves across her face, trailing affection in soft pecks.

"Darling," he murmurs finally, the word brushing the space between the corner of her eye and the slope of her nose. "My beautiful darling."

For a time, it is only this: the soft, delicious calm of him speaking to her. His voice meanders, touching on nothing of consequence, and she only catches fragments of it. But it doesn’t matter. Emmrich likes to talk, and she likes to listen. Understanding feels secondary; if the words matter, truly matter, he will shape them for her, take her hand and guide her through their labyrinth, plucking them off the pages of his thoughts, pressing them gently onto her tongue until she can taste their meaning. He is good like that. He cares.

At some point, she notices her fingers have laced through his. She lifts his hand to examine it, turning it idly, her gaze snagging on the rings he always removes before bed. But not tonight. The gleam of gold is there, caught in the dim light, and it makes her smile, foolish and wide, as though she’s stumbled upon some great secret. He has forgotten. Or, more thrillingly, he has chosen not to care. Poor gold, she thinks, the silent witness to their debauchery.

She presses a kiss to his hand, the cool metal brushing her lips, and without meaning to, asks, "What do you dream about?"

The question hangs in the air, and for a moment, dread knocks at her skull, demanding to be let in. Before he can answer, she barrels forward, filling the space with her own voice, needing to stamp out the awkward, saccharine edge she suddenly feels, the absurd mushiness curling in her chest.

"I dream of being rich," she blurts. They are like loose change, her stupid words, spilling from a pocket that's been slit at the seams by a thief. Her snort escapes first, blunt and ugly, followed by a laugh, both curling back on her, mocking not just the question but the fragile sentiment that dared to surface with it.

Can she just stop fucking laughing, she wonders. Why is she always laughing, always, like some deranged, overwound automaton? Not an elegant, costly one, no, nothing like that. A cheap, broken thing, its key jammed tight, grinding out the same rasping, ungainly refrain over and over again.

"Oh, simple things," Emmrich replies. He pauses for a moment, humming softly into the quiet. "A stroll through town with you. An evening in the countryside—"

"I like the countryside," she interjects quickly.

"Yes," he says, smiling faintly, "I thought you might. I do as well. Star-gazing over a fine drink. Making love to you under the stars in the next moment." He goes quiet for a single breath. "As I said, my dear, simple pleasures. Perhaps I’d take you to a jeweler," he continues, his tone lightening as he lifts her hand to his lips, nipping gently at her pinkie finger, the one sticking out from their entwined hands.

Predictably, and to her own irritation, she laughs, a sharp burst of sound that only encourages him. "Cover you in gold," he muses, his voice warm with amusement, "to dissuade you from wandering into a dragon’s hoard. Again. And yes," he adds, chuckling softly himself, "I suppose in doing so, I’d make you rich. Two birds, one stone, as the saying goes. Two dreams for the price of one."

"You're a sentimentalist."

"So I have been told."

His hand glides over her hip, tracing idle paths up and down, aimless but soothing. For a while, she simply lets him roam, savoring the quiet between them. He disentangles their hands, his fingers slipping from the hollows between her knuckles one by one. She feels him push gently, rolling her onto her back, palm settling on her stomach before venturing lower. She parts her thighs without a thought, her body moving ahead of her mind, and a dizzy smile threatens to split her face. Oh, the sheer joy of it; she could smile herself silly, smile her way into an early grave.

He dips into the slick mess between her legs, parting her folds but not yet pushing inside. Instead, he rocks his touch back and forth, teasing the edge of intrusion before retreating, his fingers pressing against her clit just long enough to blur sensation into numbness. Then he circles back, reigniting the pleasure in waves. She lifts one leg, angling to meet his rhythm, and hums, a soft sound of encouragement.

"I shall never tire of how eager you are," he admits. When her eyes flutter open, she finds him watching her intently. Only when she meets his eyes does he let his own trail downward, tracing the flush spreading across her chest.

"Just an opportunist," she breathes, her hips tilting, seeking the relief of his fingers, desperate to catch them, to pull them inside her where she aches for him most. But his touch remains tentative, merely skimming over her.

"You need never wait for an opportunity with me."

"Not you, no," she concedes, smiling just a little. "But..." Her gaze drops lower, to the glistening trail he is spreading further, the evidence of her desire, of him, spilling from her with every slow stroke of his hand. "Waste not, want not, or something like that, hmm?"

His eyes follow hers, and she feels the moment he understands, feels it in the sharp twitch of his cock against her skin. The weight of it presses against her, hot and heavy, as his hand finally dips lower, and his fingers press into her.

"Oh," he murmurs, but his voice is distant, his attention entirely on his fingers. Those long, deft fingers that abandon her briefly to caress the insides of her thighs. He gathers the seed that's leaked out of her, dragging it back up, spreading it over her folds, before pressing it back into her. Two fingers sink knuckle-deep, curling inside her as she sighs, her hips lifting eagerly to meet him. "Indeed," Emmrich whispers, and that single word—two simple syllables—lands like a punch, each one punctuated by the wet, obscene sound of her cunt clenching and spasming around him. "Let us be mindful."

"Yes, yes," she echoes, her breath catching as her hips roll against his hand, angling herself perfectly so that his palm grinds against her clit with every movement. "With all that grey in your hair, who knows if you’ll keel over sooner rather than later. Gotta make the most of it."

"Very amusing, Rook," he mutters, though his lips curl at the edges. His fingers don’t falter, still driving into her with a steady rhythm, fucking his seed back into her with every thrust. The wet, filthy sounds between them seem to grow louder, drowning out her teasing bullshit.

"Your stamina’s not bad either," she pants, her tone breaking with a gasp as he curls his fingers just so. "Your hand's, I mean. For someone who probably remembers when the wheel was invented, at least."

This earns an actual eye roll from Emmrich. He moves to tickle behind her knee, making her jolt. "Comedy gold, dearest," he deadpans.

She huffs, unable to resist her own antics. "I’m just saying," she insists, giggling as her other leg shifts forward, trying to hook around his waist to pull him down on top of her. "Let me know if we need to stop for a water break. I know you need to stay hydrated at your age."

Gently but firmly, he pushes her wandering leg away with a tut. "Behave," he chides, his free hand gripping her hip hard enough to leave the faintest imprint as he presses it down, keeping her spread wide for him. He pulls out of her for a moment to caress her thigh, then her lower belly, humming thoughtfully. "At any rate," he says, voice rich with dry humor, "I trust you won’t let me die of thirst."

As if to underline his point, he leans down without warning, his lips brushing against her swollen, aching cunt. He drags his tongue up in one long, slow stroke, making her inhale sharply, before he pulls back just as casually and resumes his position on his haunches. His hand returns between her legs, seamlessly replacing his mouth, fingers plunging back inside her.

A third finger joins the others, stretching her further, and her back arches off the bed. It’s not his cock—no, nothing is—but they are dexterous, caressing her from the inside, and she can’t hold back the moan that slithers from her throat. Her thighs tremble as she grabs his wrist, holding him there, grinding herself against his hand, desperate to chase the high building inside her.

"There you go," he says, his gaze locked on the obscene mess between her legs, utterly entranced. How his fingers disappear inside of her, how it ought to be his cock, how it might be his cock soon enough, if the stirring interest she keeps feeling brush against her is any indicator. "There you go, darling, my darling. Oh, well done."

She thinks it should embarrass her, how quickly she falls apart under his touch; her leg jerking violently, her nostrils flaring, her hand forcing his fingers deeper, harder, until she swears she can feel the faint scrape of his nails inside her. She can’t bear for him to stop, not until the wild pounding of her heart begins to subside, not until the pulsing deep inside her settles enough that it doesn’t feel like he could feel it there too, throbbing around his fingers. When at last her body stills, she releases his wrist, and his hand is his own again.

He doesn’t pull away entirely. Instead, he drags his fingers through the evidence of her climax, spreading it across her skin in languid sweeps. From her stomach to the curve of her left breast, he paints her until his fingertips dry. Only then does he lean down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the center of her sternum before he turns his head, letting his cheek come to rest against the same spot.

His breath ghosts warm over her skin, almost a lullaby. She tries to part her legs wider, inviting him back into her, but instead of moving he shakes his head, the motion rubbing his stubble faintly against her chest.

"I believe," he murmurs, his tone heavy with drowsy amusement, "I might fall asleep."

"Then do," she replies simply.

Emmrich huffs, a short, wry sound. "Absolutely not," he haughtily objects. "You and I have never been more in need of a bath. Give me but a moment, my dear."

He leaves her to draw said bath, and the sound of rushing water trickles into the edges of her awareness as she closes her eyes. Of course the Lighthouse would give him a tub, she thinks. Emmrich without his nightly ritual soak? Unimaginable. The salts, the oils, the soaps, his little arsenal of comforts.

Without it, he might very well crumble into dust. He already plays the tragic martyr every time they’re forced to spend more than a single night in Arlathan Forest. She can practically hear the sighs, the kvetching, see the subtle curl of his lip as the rest of them splash around in the river like heathens. How vulgar, his expression always seems to say, as though cleanliness not sanctioned by perfumed water is beneath him.

The memory makes her smile. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, hard enough to feel the pressure sink into her skull, hard enough to drown out even the sound of the bathwater. When she finally opens them again, fireworks of color burst and bloom in the darkness, like a garish encore to her thoughts, leaving her blind for a few seconds longer than feels reasonable. And he is there too, inviting her into the water.

She takes his hand, letting him pull her up and off the bed, her steps dragging as though weighted with some unseen anchor. The walk to the bath is short, mercifully so, as her body feels languid, loose, and tired in the way only moments of deep intimacy can summon. The water steams faintly, hotter than she likes, and she pauses on the edge before stepping in. It licks at her flesh, turning it an alarming, blotchy red that she knows will fade.

Usually, she folds into him, her back pressed to his chest, her spine nestled against the softness of his skin. But tonight, something feels different. She wants to see him, to watch him. Slowly, she adjusts, settling into his lap, her legs draped over his, facing him instead.

She gathers water in her palms and lets it spill over his hair, again and again. She knows it’s enough when the strands are slicked back, heavy and gleaming, ready for the lather of the soap he reserves for it. A rich, herbal thing that smells like damp forests and earth, one that never leaves her skin raw no matter how much she uses. Her hands work without thought, smoothing the lather between her palms before massaging it into his hair.

Because she wants to talk. Needs to. But she can’t, not if her hands are still, not if there’s nothing to distract them. She doesn’t know how to begin. Doesn’t know how to say it, how to shape it, how to—

She exhales.

"Emmrich," she says, and immediately it’s as though she’s stepped outside herself, not seeing but hearing, listening from some distant corner. Her voice disgusts her; pathetic, thin, trembling with a kind of vulnerability that makes her stomach twist. She tries again. "The things that you want..." It falters, slips through her fingers. She tries again. "I mean, not the ones you told me about after I asked, the other things..." And even then, she can’t finish.

Immediately, he lifts his hand, waving it in an airy, dismissive gesture, as if to brush away her worries before they can settle. His eyes crease at the corners, weary in a way that mirrors her own exhaustion. That same hand, mid-wave, finds its way to her hair, smoothing it down.

"Fantasies, dear one, are precisely that—fantasies," he says. His palm cups the back of her head fully now, his fingers splaying, curling ever so slightly against her skull, until he gently guides her face toward him. His lips press to her forehead and he keeps them there for a long moment, breathing her in.

"You dream of gold," he continues, his voice lilting, thoughtful, "but that does not mean you wish to be encased in it." There’s a faint sound as his lips part from her, a soft pull of air that seems to punctuate his thoughts. "Whimsy is a necessity, a salve for the spirit. I have envisioned myself in a thousand different lives, a million postures and possibilities, each one its own fleeting delight. And yet, none of them came to pass, nor did they need to. Dreams are dreams for a reason," he concludes, his other hand lifting to trace the curve of her cheek. "Because we are creatures who must dream and life, my darling, would be unbearably impoverished without them.''

Bullshit, she thinks. Pure, uncut crap. He can wrap it in poetry, layer it with pretty words and polished sentiment, but she knows a con when she sees one. She is one—a walking, breathing embodiment of artifice, having swindled men and women out of time, money, patience, and whatever else they held too loosely. She watches him now, smiling tiredly, stifling a yawn behind his hand, and the signs are all there. Emmrich wants. He wants, but he doesn’t want to admit to wanting.

She shakes her head.

"When the gods are dead," she says eventually, "we’ll have this conversation again. The dreams you dream are far from trivial. You deserve them. And next time," she adds, cross, "you won’t feed me hogwash."

His eyes widen, her name forming on his lips. "Rook—"

"I didn’t say I don’t want the things you do," she interrupts, as her fingers begin moving, rewetting his hair where the soap has dried into brittle peaks. "Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe someday I’ll wake up and want them so badly I can’t think of anything else. Or maybe the very thought will make me sick."

Her hands still for a moment, water trickling from her palms, before she shrugs. ''But right now?" she says, her tone shifting, lifting, shaping itself into something lighter, more playful. It has to be funny again; she has to be funny again, has to summon back her stupid laughter, her idiotic giggling, his soft, indulgent smiles. "Right now is obviously not the time. And frankly, every child within earshot already annoys me; I've got way too much on my plate."

''Yes,'' Emmrich drawls, ''I do recall the Minrathous... incident.''

"That kid deserved to be kicked in the teeth," she points out, defensive. "Honestly, he got off lightly. Besides, you didn’t exactly leap to object in the moment."

"That’s because I did not anticipate you would, if you’ll pardon the vulgarity, flip off a child. I was, shall we say, momentarily struck speechless."

''He spat on me, Emmrich. He. Spat. On. Me.''

He looks at her, one eyebrow arched, and she braces instinctively, ready for the lecture that is sure to follow. The carefully measured reprimand about setting an example, being better, Emmrich’s usual litany of moralistic platitudes. But instead his head tips back, and out comes a laugh. More of a bark than anything, uncharacteristically loud, the kind of laugh she’s only ever heard when the wine has loosened him too much to care. It ripples through him, shaking his shoulders, and when it finally ebbs, he rubs at his eyes, catching the faint shine of unshed tears on his fingertips.

"Oh, my Rook," he says, his voice softened by the remnants of laughter still rumbling faintly in his chest. "My pretty, beloved thing." He pauses, his gaze locking onto hers with something that feels almost too raw to bear. "Forgive the selfishness," he requests, ''but how profoundly grateful I am that you once looked my way—and that you keep looking still."

Words evade her, slippery as minnows in a dark pond, darting away before she can grasp them. They do not reside in her the way they do in him, coiled neatly, nestled against the plush warmth of his inner cheek, waiting to be shaped. Hers are buried somewhere deep and low. But perhaps she can press them into him instead, push their meaning into the pores of his skin, let them seep beneath the surface where he might understand without her needing to speak.

She kisses his forehead first, the heat of it damp against her lips, a soft communion. Then his eyelids, fluttering faintly beneath her touch. His temple is salty with sweat, his cheekbones cold and sharp despite the heat of the water. Her lips rest there, pressing, inscribing, as if she can carve her thoughts into him, etch the unsayable into the planes of his face.

He is pretty too. So unbearably pretty that it makes her chest ache. But not the kind of prettiness that lives in novels or in the polished symmetry of soft-featured men. His beauty is stark; all angles, shadow and bone. His silver hair catches the light in a way that gold never could. Gold, which is gaudy and loud, has never suited her. Silver, though, oh, silver is cooler, cleaner, the kind of thing that fits her—he fits her—like a finely wrought bangle clasped around her wrist.

The lines by his eyes are her favorite part, she thinks. They betray him in ways nothing else does, giving him away when he’s surprised or angry or sad, and she treasures them for that, for their honesty. They are the marks of someone who feels deeply, someone who cares, someone who can be trusted with fragile things. Those lines soften him, make him approachable in a way no smooth, unmarked youth could ever manage. She could stare at them for hours, watching their tiny twitches and shifts, memorizing every single one.

If there is a crime in the universe, it is that there is only one Emmrich Volkarin. It feels absurd that the world has been granted just one of him. Any child of his should look only like him. She should contribute nothing. No smudges, no imperfections, nothing to mar the clarity of his design. She is the inkblot at the end of a pristine manuscript, while he is the volume itself, bound in dark leather and gleaming gold leaf.

How could eternity ever be long enough for someone like him? He deserves it, yes, deserves it entirely, but only the kind that cradles and preserves, the kind that shields instead of consumes. Not the ugly eternity of bone and ash, not the endless emptiness of lichdom. She cannot bear the thought of him reduced to such a thing, his beauty stripped away, his brilliance devoured by the erosion of time. That he doesn’t see it this way only deepens her frustration.

Hand me a spoon, she muses, her imagined voice so calm, so terribly polite. Thank you, thank you, you are ever so kind.And with that same borrowed civility, she would take the utensil and gouge out her own eyes. She would pluck them from their sockets, let the blood spill down her cheeks, let the nerve endings dangle like roots freshly torn from soil. Not forever, no, not forever. Just long enough for him to borrow them, to press her ruined vision into his own skull and see what she sees.

He is so, so pretty, she thinks again, wrapped up in his polished clothes, perfumed and proper, and she wants to scream it into him, to shove it into his head. She would ruin herself for him, scrape her knees raw on the ground prostrating at his feet, would choke on his cock until she tasted him in her lungs. She would swallow him whole, his seed flooding her throat, coating her insides, until she was painted with him, an Emmrich-colored thing from the inside out. She would fuck him any way, every way he likes, let him break her apart and remake her, just to ensure he never doubted how utterly lovely he is.

She doesn’t know how to say any of this, how to dislodge the words from the thicket of her chest and shape them into something he might understand. Instead, she presses her lips to his cheek and kisses him there. Again. Again. Again. Once, twice.

"Pretty," she murmurs. Her lips brush the edge of his jaw, where the first hint of roughness begins to bloom. "You are so, so pretty."

#emmrook fanfic #emmrook #emmrich x rook #dragon age the veilguard #here be smut

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