#thedas weekend

[guacamolleee]

Happy Wednesday! "clinomania" for Thana Ingellvar, with or without Emmrich and/or Nova.

Thank you for the prompt!! You send me clinomania, and I raise you emmrook morning sex (featuring a little bit of premature ejaculation) 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

clinomania - an excessive desire to stay in bed or a reluctance to get out of bed

Explicit | 1,504 words | AO3 Version | @thedasweekend

Dawn had only begun to break. The cool, early morning light winked softly between the curtains, casting a dreamy glow across the bedroom like a silk shroud.

The world lingered in the Fade — except for one.

Emmrich woke before the sun, yet he remained beneath the covers, sleep-warm. A sweet sort of sluggishness, honey in his veins, clung to him from the body tucked into his side. Rook's bare arm slung across his stomach, fingers curled and tucked beneath his side, her equally bare leg twisted around his own, pinning him in place. It was always a feat to extract himself from her — and this morning, even harder.

The night before had been a long one. With the new academic year in full swing and the return of the rest of his duties as a Watcher, it came as no surprise that he had come home late into the night, shoulders stiff, feet tired. There was a meal waiting for him in the kitchen — spelled to keep fresh and warm, his heart soaring despite his fatigue at the ordinary evidence of this new life he'd built with Rook. But he'd none of the energy to eat and the call of their bedroom had been too great.

Thus he slipped between the sheets as soon as he was able, Rook, even in her rest, reaching for him in the dark, muttering something too soft for him to make out, her lips to his chest in a sleepy, sloppy peck before quickly snoring again. Emmrich held back a chuckle, afraid that the rumble of his chest would wake her. Then he was quick to follow her into the Fade soon after.

A miracle in the mundanity.

Even the scent of her hair stirred him, inhaling the soap — lavender and oranges and something so intrinsically Rook — from her bath the night before as he buried his nose into the top of her head. His heart soared at the light sweat on her forehead, salt on his lips, his tongue, when he kissed her there, sweet as sugar and just as addicting.

He could live in her pores if he had to, dug deep below her skin, stretched over the canvas of her body until there was no him or her. Just them. Together. On a morning like any other, and yet so precious still.

Emmrich knew to count his blessings — each day they woke in each other’s arms exactly that. A blessing beyond his wildest fantasies. That sweet dream locked away deep in his heart as the years passed around him now suddenly set free.

It could make him weep.

It had, it did.

Even now, his breath hitched in his lungs, stuck in his throat like a boulder, and he wrapped his arms around his Rook, crossed behind her back, pulling her even closer against him, skin stuck together, no end nor beginning.

Rook made a soft sound against him, and he could only kiss her again. On her forehead, down to the bridge of her nose, across the arch of her cheeks. Emmrich couldn’t help himself. He tilted her head up with one hand and finally captured her lips.

A smooth, slow movement, no heat. There was no need.

Yet, in her sleep, halfway between waking and dreaming, Rook responded, sluggish and languid, a careless sweep of her tongue across his bottom lip that had Emmrich inhaling sharply. His body responded to her without his meaning to, cock stirring beneath his sleeping trousers at the simplest of touches. She stretched in his grip, her foot kneading his calf, knee brushing along where he wanted her most, her hand now resting on his chest.

When they parted, she blinked lazily up at him, sleep still in her eyes, but her lips curling into a satisfied smile.

“Apologies, dearest. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head again.

“No? Well, it’s a nice way to wake up, anyway.” Her fingers danced on his chest, moving lower and lower until she brushed against him, halfway to fullness. “Very nice.”

She was a menace. How he loved her so.

“It’s still early, Rook.” He shook his head, yet his cock hardened as she rubbed him, growing heated in her grip. “Go back to sleep.”

She pretended to think, pouting at him — Emmrich resisting the urge to smother her in kisses as dawn bathed them in its light — before she grinned, teasing, “Nah. You should take some responsibility, Emmrich.”

Hooking her leg to his waist, she pulled herself up and settled on top him, Emmrich groaning when her cunt pressed against him, nothing but her smalls and his trousers between them. Her breasts, full and bare, dangled in front of his face like temptation made flesh, and he nearly lost all sense, fighting the urge to take her into his mouth. She circled her hips once, then twice, Emmrich's hands flying up to her waist with a moan. Rook only laughed.

“I was so lonely, you know.” She moved her hips again, slowly, punctuating her words, breasts heaving enticingly. “You were gone for so long last night. Had to go to bed all by my lonesome.” His cock ached, an inferno sparking in his blood at her every movement. “You have to make it up to me, Emmrich.”

“And— ah,” he panted, teeth clenching, head tilting back to look up at her with half-lidded eyes, desirous. “And how do you— propose I do that?”

She laughed again, a beautiful sound that had his heart aching and his cock stiffening to fullness, straining against her, the wet stain of their twin desires darkening their clothes.

“I have a few ideas.”

Oh, how fruitful those ideas proved to be, Rook's clever hand finding the band of his trousers, air cloying with arousal as she freed him, grip just so, wrapping her fist around him finger by finger, thumb right under where translucent arousal wept freely from his tip. He groaned as she pumped him with one hand, slow but no less eager, lifting her hips and moving her smalls to the side with the other.

“Rook—” Her name left his throat, a strangled sound, as she lined his cock to her core, her cunt already slick, ready for him. She hovered, lingered, smearing her wetness across him, the ache beginning to burn in his very soul the more she teased him.

He pleaded, but it fell on deaf ears, little mercy to be found. Skin flushed, sweat building on his brow, and yet Rook continued to tease, fluttering around his cockhead, excruciatingly close but still so very far. He kneaded her hips, palmed her backside, soft flesh under his almost manic grip. He pressed down, begging without words for her to take him deeper, but Rook denied him with another laugh.

“Darling, please— I can’t—”

“Oh? What was that?” She pretended not to hear him, only lifting her hips up again, Emmrich slipping out, shivering as the cool air hit his cock, mourning the loss of the warmth of her cunt around his cockhead. Then she canted her hips, catching her clit against him with a loud moan, brushing along his length at her leisure.

And it was her right, he knew it, her name etched into the marrow of his bones. She could take everything from him, and he would only offer more. More of his heart, his blood, the viscera in his guts, the sinews of his muscles. It was all for her. Anything and everything that was him — his breath, his soul — she owned, and he could only thank her for it.

“I love you.”

It was hard to say who said it, the both of them with their panting breaths and hammering hearts, the words too honest, too wondrous, for this early in the morning.

And yet, it was enough — Emmrich came with a shout, the tight coil of his arousal snapping suddenly, painting ropes of white up his stomach, over Rook’s cunt and smalls, as she laughed in surprise.

It was mortifying.

It was divine.

Skin flushed all over from the heat and his embarrassment, toes curling, his head almost too light that he felt he may float away. But Rook anchored him, crashing their lips together in a frenzy, as she circled her hips, turning ferocious as she sought to follow him. Her movements spread his seed all over, uncaring of the growing stickiness, her smallclothes ruined, warm all over, swallowing each other’s moans. When she finally came, pressing their hips tight together, it stole his breath. She ground against him, a rush of her own arousal joining his between their bodies.

Their twin moans finally softened to a hum, Rook laying on top of him, unheeding of the mess, Emmrich incapable of speech as he caught his breath.

It was Rook that broke the silence, as she was wont to do, lifting her head up to say to him with a smirk, “Let’s stay in bed today, shall we?”

(AO3 Version)

[theluckywizard]

happy THWEE!! how about "Offering a hand in polite invitation" with rose/cullen?

thank youuuu! I also incorporated this prompt from @devaigh 🥰

For @thedasweekend Pairing: Rose Trevelyan x Cullen Rutherford AU: In the Shattering of Things CW: alcohol use, mentions of MCD, bit handsy spicy near the end

WC: 2,174

It had been a gamble to come here in plain clothes. He hoped it meant that people wouldn’t recognize him— that he was more mantle than man most of the time, that he could take it all off for a blessed moment and disappear amongst the rank and file. After all the years being sought for his uniform alone in Kirkwall and even the isolated little village outside Kinloch, there’s comfort in a degree of anonymity.

He’d rather hoped that some distraction might present itself. Being tethered to Rose by necessity and further by a promise to Hawke, has done nothing to diminish the intensity of his attachment, but perhaps the attentions of another might. Rylen suggested it might, anyway. Cullen huffs. He’s not sure why he listened to him— Rylen’s advice is for a different kind of man all together.

But then Rose is there against the far wall, dragged in on Dorian’s insistence, on Bethany’s. She’s snuffed like a candle despite the raucous sawing of the fiddle, the tremors rolling through the floor boards as everyone dances and dances and dances. He ought to feel more ashamed of the tenacity of his desires, but the only thing he can think of now is her hand hot and claggy in his and her foot stomping his into the mud.

She catches him looking across the chaos, a familiar jolt of indigo blue spiking his blood, pulling him in.

Everyone knows about her affairs. They’ll glom onto any development like a pack of hunger demons. They’ll talk.

Perhaps there are worse things to be accused of than the truth.

By the time he works up the nerve to will his feet across the room and invite Rose to part from the wall, Cullen is snatched into a reel by a flushed young thing, a cloud of brown frizz breaking from her sweat-dampened hair. He’s able to set aside his near-panic enough to follow her feverish steps, but can do little about the chagrin on his face. 

Her eyes widen. “Oh shit you’re the commander!”

Cullen hasn’t the gall to deny it. “I was hoping no one would notice.”

“Fat chance of that.” Her bluster is uniquely north Fereldan. If only his rank could save him from this trapped-rat sensation. “You don’t want to dance with me.” Mercy, please. “But you didn’t have the sense to skirt around the dance floor, so now you’re stuck.”

“It would seem so.” He blushes violently. The woman smirks. “I did not mean—” Cullen tries again after another turn. “I only meant—”

“Were you off to see her, then?”

“Sorry?”

“Our holy savior, Milady Inquisitor.” He can’t tell if the edge is mockery or envy. “Don’t give me that look. Everyone already knows about you two.”

“You forget yourself,” he warns her. The woman is unfazed.

“I thought you didn’t want to be Commander for an evening.” Pinioned by her brown stare, he searches for a response. Rylen would argue that she could easily be the solution to his problems, but he’s convinced he’d never be rid of her were he foolish enough to capitulate.

“I did mean to ask her,” he admits.

“Was that so hard? So why aren’t you dancing with her then?”

“Because you—” Cullen reconsiders as she lifts her brow. “It’s inappropriate. Me and her.” Cabot’s applejack must be kicking in.

She leans in, her voice low and conspiratorial. “You think the ghost of the Champion will come and knock your head in?” Cullen exhales a laugh.

“Not quite.”

She lowers her voice again. “Got a thing for self-denial?”

“What? I— no.”

“It’s just that I figured you were a man of action, not one to dither about waiting for a sign or the right time or whatever twaddle people tell themselves.”

Well. Perhaps this is a pattern of behavior.

The corned-rat sensation persists. He certainly hadn’t come out tonight to be dissected. In the absence of an adequate response, he focuses on his steps, watching them bungle across the sauced floorboards.

“Well if you’re not going to shag me, you’d better shag her,” she says, mock innocence all over her face. “Put a smile or something on her face.”

“Andraste pre—”

“Come off it, there’s no need to bring her into things.” 

A hand on his bicep disrupts them. 

“I need him.” Bethany. The frizzy woman looks unhappy about defeat but concedes. 

As Bethany drags him to the side of the room, Cullen spots Rylen hiding his Maker-damned smirk behind his tankard at the bar. The floorboards still jump beneath his boots, the tavern air thickens as dancers throw heat. What could she possibly want with him?

“I’m only going to say this once,” she says. “You need to go to her.” There’s no battling this blush, and when Bethany’s Senior Enchanter Stare pins him, his own gaze grasps helplessly for Rose.

“What do you—”

“Stupid doesn’t become you, Cullen.”

He exhales through his nose. “I promised your brother—”

“Well he’s not here, is he?” she says. “Nor would he want Rose to be miserable.”

“Speak plainly,” he begs.

“You should be happy together,” she says. Cullen huffs.

“Then why does this feel like a trap?”

Bethany’s head slumps to one side. “Only you would see happiness as trap, Cullen.”

“Well I—”

Her brow jumps sympathetically, her voice grows quiet and steely. He’d heard entreaties pass her lips this way a hundred times before, but this time it’s a a soft command. “Listen. Nothing will diminish her love for him. But something new can grow. It has to. Go to her.”

His stomach does an unruly, adolescent flip. He’s a man damn it.

And if everyone had just let him be, he might have asked her already.

Cullen searches through the staggering, twirling masses and finds her unmoved, cradled by the cracked plaster wall, her listing mug of ale about to make another submission to the slop of the floor. Some far away thought has her prisoner as usual. Bethany gives him a shove.

“Go on.”

He shoulders past people toward Rose, swiping at the sweat dampening his hairline, feeling the plow behind him more than the pull. Worst case scenarios spark and fade as he approaches, the fiddles and lutes receding into mud, then a boyish, lost hope wells in his stomach as her gaze finds him. If it were spring already he could invite her away from the chaos, but with the Guardian winds rattling the shutters, he commits himself. 

Standing over her, bumped in the back by a passing celebrant, his senses make for safer harbor. He searches for a Maker-damned invitation with a slack mouth.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she says, rescuing him.

He clears his throat. “I’m questioning my sanity myself. Rylen’s doing.”

Her focus finds the frizzy one on the dance floor behind him. “And have you found good company?” 

Envy shouldn’t become her so well. Well he’d like to believe it’s envy. 

“I have,” he says, extending a polite, trembling hand. “If you’d do me the honor.”

Just put me out of my misery.

Instead she brightens, staring at his hand, the makings of a smile forming.

“Have your toes agreed to this arrangement?” she asks, plunking her hand in his. Cullen smiles himself.

“Reluctantly.” A dozen people look on, measuring them. Cullen lowers his voice. “Are you sure? People will talk. They don’t understand we’re friends.”

“Friends.” The word sticks to her tongue. Rose shrugs. “Gossip is good for morale.”

He hasn’t improved since their last go. But he’ll try for her.

When the song breaks they claim a spot.

“I haven’t danced since—” A little sigh leaves her.

“Griffon Wing,” Cullen fills in. She nods.

She’s been hiding behind that new Inquisition circlet Josephine commissioned so long now that her bare, freckled forehead feels like a revelation. Unlike other revelers, Rose wears her russet-colored leathers as if it’s any other occasion and then covers it all up under her violet cowl, the same thing she’d been wearing in Haven when affection for her first awakened. She flaunts nothing yet captivates him entirely.

Her favorite sonnets had once struck him as cloying and insincere, but really it was their insistence on his inadequacy. Generally, he could only name what he felt and observed in the crudest terms. All the compliments that lie dormant on his tongue stir, ones he’d once engineered while flat on his back when sleep wouldn’t come. Stupid ones. Your hair is like freshly scrubbed copper. Desperate ones. I still dream of your lips against mine. While he silently berates himself, she positions his hand on her waist.

“A reel,” she says. “Do you remember the steps?”

“I can pretend,” he answers.

They must crash into a half dozen other couples. His steps remain clumsy and crude. But she smiles so fully and so genuinely, he can’t help his own giddy grin. They break for drinks and dance another and another, until his pinky toes are smarting and it seems nearly everyone must be forming an opinion about them. Rose has decided not to care.

Beneath his fingers, turning under his arm, she recovers a bit of what was lost. Her braid whips against his doublet, her hand sweats against his. He forgets to care himself.

Eventually they stagger from the dance floor on jellied limbs

“I’ll walk you back,” she declares, dragging him toward the stairs. Their senses have been carried off by all the ale. He’d like nothing more than to tuck her into his bed, but he finds his manners.

“It’s cold on the battlements.”

Rose tosses her braid back over her shoulder and fans herself with a floppy hand. “I’m hot.”

═════ ✧ ═════ 

“Why didn’t you tell me it was this cold?”

He scolds her but laughs, hustling her along to the yet-to-be renovated guard house as sleet bites at their exposed skin. The door is snatched out of his hand by a gust of wind, setting it banging against the stone wall. He jerks it closed and shakes the ice pallets from his curls in the darkness. Rose tugs off her glove to illuminate her path through the clutter— fallen timbers and decaying banners. When he trips over something and catches himself on his hands, Rose turns back to rescue him, pulling him to his feet.

“I must have used up all my sure footing,” he chuckles. She lingers, too close, as if they’re still bashing across the tavern floor, as if her intent dovetails with his need. Her fingertips dawdle against his palm and then catch his. “We should probably keep going,” he says, inexplicably. “Or maybe—”

Something yields in her expression. That unreachable bit of her he’s been hunting taunts him like a mirage. But it isn’t an invention of his own hopes; this time, it’s real. The gap between them shrinks though he’s sure he isn’t leaning in. There’s a tug on his jacket, then her nose brushes his, then her breath fans over his lips.

“We should probably keep going,” she says, so close her lip grazes his. Cullen swallows his heart from his throat, his blood wild in his veins.

Rose turns to lead him to the opposite exit.

The collapse of his foolish hopes still washes him in a sense of relief. 

Halfway out the far door, she stops.

“No, wait.”

Then she reels him close by handfuls of his jacket until her warm mouth meets his. It’s a stout, sloppy kiss, as brave and insistent as it had been those other times. Alcohol pierces their breath, sharpens the taste of each other’s tongues as he fumbles to close the door. When it bangs shut behind her, Rose backs into it, tugging him to her by his cheeks.

He drinks what he can, expecting it all to come crashing to a halt, even as desire buckles his knees, even as she hikes a thigh over his hip.

“Oh Rose,” he breathes, as they search wildly through all their infernal layers, closer and closer, finding a rhythm against one another that sends pleasure hurtling through his fingertips, cresting over him. If he doesn’t get a grip, he’ll lose himself right here.

“Wait—” He falls against his arm over her, catching his breath, his sense of decency protesting loudly. “We are not ourselves.”

She nods in the thin green light, and then wipes her lips on the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No— the dancing. The drink.”

“Cullen…”

“I know.”

“Fuck.”

“I know.”

She walks him to his office then he keeps walking her on through to the rotunda. In the torch light, her glossy, kiss-swollen lips beckon him again. 

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I have to think.” Cullen reaches up and pushes a single strand of hair off her cheek, an excuse to touch her really. She sighs, her look pitying and apologetic in equal measure. “Find me tomorrow.”

[fadetouchedlurker]

Happy THWEE! Welcome to the party :)

Gimme Solavallen with the line "Do I wanna know if this feeling goes both ways" (from Do I Wanna Know by the Arctic Monkeys)

Thank you!!

Last week's @thedasweekend prompt. This one was so much fun; I got to hear a new song, and I was playing it on repeat when I was writing. It popped a picture of Solas during Trespasser in my head right away.

Uncertainty (2690 words)

Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Thedas Weekend (Dragon Age), Lavellan/Solas Angst (Dragon Age), Solas is Grim and Fatalistic (Dragon Age), Pining Solas (Dragon Age), Dragon Age: The Veilguard Spoilers, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC And an excerpt below the cut:

The spirits of the Crossroads spoke to him. She kept uncovering passages, murals. She had destroyed the Qunari lyrium refinery in the Deep Roads. She had found the hidden shrine that exposed his guilt over the fall of the Titans. She was relentless, uncovering every secret. She hunted him, like the Dalish story of the Dread Wolf and the Coursing Hound. The Viddasala hunted him as well, but he had no fear of the Viddasala and her forces. For all the might of her Saarebas, it paled compared to his.

But he wondered.

His feelings for her would never change. He wondered if hers had, or if they had dissolved with time, wondered if they had persisted but changed from love to hate with all that she uncovered in the Crossroads. He knew the Anchor was dangerously unstable now. She had so little time. Her passage through the Crossroads had made it worse. It had absorbed energy from the Fade, just as it had when she had found the spirit that remembered the dreamer Telana in the Frostback Basin.

Would it be worse, or better, if she did not think of him as her heart any longer? If she saw him as Fen’harel and not as Solas. He was not certain, now, if he had ever been Solas, or if Solas had simply been worn away over the ages, subsumed into his grim duty. It seemed too easy to return to his duty, to seal his heart away. He would never forget her, but he could, perhaps, wall it away, if she did not feel the same as he.

He had told her to harden her heart. He wondered if she had. He had not taken his own advice.

[justjasper]

hi jasper !!! happy THWEE :D

how about dorian/bull + "why didn't you tell me you were bleeding?" from the patching up wounds prompts >:))))

"I haven't given myself a cold blister since I was in the Circle," Dorian grouses, holding his hand out for the Bull. The skin on the heel of his palm and his fingertips is red, blisters beginning to form on the skin.

"Pretty sure we can blame this one on the tic wraith, big guy."

Despair demon, by a mage's understanding. Despair does so much like to manifest as cold or wet, or cold and wet. Truly, the worst to deal with pouring out of a rift; he'd take fire or claws over one of those flying shits any day.

"So, 'tic' is cold?" he says, as he lets the Bull unscrew his jar of salve. It's essential for any mage caster, as while magic could heal it, it leaves ugly, sometimes painful scars on the hands if the flesh isn't treated first. He'd have sorted the thing itself, but unfortunately the jar requires two hands to unscrew. Or it would, by a normal man's hands - the Bull's hand is so large he unscrews and pops the lid with the fingers of the same palm it's balanced on.

"Cold, ice, snow," the Bull says easily, giving the salve a cursory sniff. Even from a distance, Dorian can smell the sharp medicinal scent, elfroot and myrtle leaf and other such things. "Qunlat has a lot of context."

"Like kadan."

Dorian focuses on the Bull's large fingers as they gently rub the salve over Dorian's forming blisters. It only stings a little. He hadn't intended to swing the conversation to this juncture, sat around a fire by the river in the Hinterlands.

"Like kadan," the Bull agrees.

"For comrades. Brothers in arms," Dorian says, with an easiness he doesn't truly feel about it.

"Those aren't the context I use it for you."

"Quite," Dorian says quietly, averting his eyes from the Bull's face, even though he looks focused on Dorian's hand. That's when he notices the rivulets of blood creeping down the Bull's side. "Kaffas!"

The Bull catches his wrist to stop Dorian moving - they tussle a little, but the Bull's grip is firm.

"Sit still."

"Why didn't you tell me you're bleeding? We can defer treating my vanity until you're not actively bleeding."

"I've had frostbite," the Bull says calmly, squeezing his wrist again, with the hand that's missing parts of two fingers. The other still turns slow circles, working the salve across his fingers and palm. "Sucked ass. You want it to heel good; my stuff can wait."

"I won't die from a frost burn."

"No, but if it heals bad the scar's gonna be tight and painful. Casting will be a bitch. Knife blade just caught me; no poison, it's just a bit of blood. I'll let you Tama me after we're done."

"Tama you?" Dorian says, a little caught off guard. Of course, the first thing he thinks is that well, the Tamassrans are who provide sex as a health service. But also, he supposes, the rest of the things one might deem care; wound care, child rearing, teaching, comfort.

The Bull doesn't ask for things he wants; it's maddening, a lot of the time. But Dorian is learning to understand when he's saying something that might be a want.

"Alright, fine," Dorian says, with less bite than he intended. "You're going to regret giving me Tamassran permission over you. I've seen what your Tama-complex is like with Vivienne."

The Bull just hums thoughtfully, pressing his thumb against Dorian's palm.

[my fic on ao3] [my fic on tumblr] [bluesky] [prompt me]

for @thedasweekend

[devaigh]

Happy Thedas Weekend! Let's have something nice and fluffy for Cullen/Inquisitor! How about "One character starts wearing the other's clothes and neither mentions it, but both love it"

So this was from last week and I have to say it got away from me a bit. Fluff...with a little bit of heat. 🔥 😈  But I hope you enjoy it! As always, this was written as a part of @thedasweekend!

Unspoken

The morning air was crisp as Cullen dismissed his recruits, watching them file out of the training yard with varying degrees of exhaustion. Dawn training had become routine since settling into Skyhold—old habits from his templar days died hard, and keeping the recruits sharp was essential. He rolled his shoulders, working out the kinks from demonstrating proper sword forms, sweat still cooling on his skin despite the morning chill.

The stone steps were worn smooth by countless boots, and he took them two at a time, eager to review the morning's reports. But as he reached the landing that overlooked the main courtyard, a familiar voice drifted up from below.

"Well, well, Inquisitor," came Varric's amused drawl. "Someone's looking particularly... comfortable this morning."

Cullen's steps slowed, then stopped entirely as his gaze found the source of the dwarf's commentary. Cordelia stood in the courtyard below, her long dark hair falling loose over her right shoulder, the buzzed left side catching the early sunlight as she spoke with Varric. But it wasn't her hair that made Cullen's breath catch—it was what she was wearing.

His shirt. The white linen one he'd assumed was lost to the laundry weeks ago, the one he'd given up hope of ever seeing again. It hung loose on her smaller frame, the neckline sliding off one pale shoulder, and she'd cinched it at the waist with—

Maker's Breath

His belt. The one he'd left in her chambers three nights ago in his haste to return to his own quarters before dawn. She was wearing his clothes, and the sight hit him like a physical blow that left him gripping the stone parapet until his knuckles went white.

The morning light seemed to caress every curve the soft linen revealed and concealed in equal measure. The way the fabric draped over her breasts, the glimpse of bare shoulder, the length of her legs beneath the shirt's hem...it was as if she'd been crafted specifically to torment him. His body responded instantly, heat pooling low in his belly despite the cool air against his sweat-dampened skin.

Mine. The thought came unbidden, fierce and immediate. She was wearing his clothes, and everyone who looked at her would know—

Varric's knowing smirk was visible even from this distance as he glanced up toward the battlements, clearly aware of his audience. The dwarf said something that made Cordelia turn, and when her eyes found his across the courtyard, Cullen felt like he'd been struck by lightning.

The look she gave him was soft, almost shy, but there was something else there, something that made his pulse race and his grip on the stone tighten further. She knew exactly what she was doing to him, and the realization only made the ache in his chest worse.

______________________________________________________________

Cordelia felt the familiar flutter of awareness as Cullen's gaze found hers across the courtyard. Even from this distance, she could see the tension in his stance, the way his hands gripped the stone parapet like his life depended on it. The intensity of his stare made her breath catch, and she had to resist the urge to smooth her hands over the soft linen of his shirt.

She'd found it mixed in with her laundry, clearly mislaid by whoever handled the washing. Instead of returning it immediately, she'd kept it, drawn by the comfort it offered and the way it still held traces of his scent. This morning, she'd found herself reaching for it without thinking, wanting to feel close to him even when they were apart.

The belt had been her own addition, she'd found it draped over her chair after their last stolen evening together, and wearing it seemed only natural. The way Cullen was looking at her now, she knew he'd noticed.

"I should go," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," Varric said with obvious satisfaction, "I believe you should."

But before she could take more than a few steps toward the stairs, a young messenger appeared at her elbow, slightly out of breath.

"Inquisitor," he said with a quick bow, "Ambassador Montilyet requests your presence in the war room. Urgent business regarding the Western Approach."

Cordelia's heart sank even as it raced. A meeting meant sitting across from Cullen, meant trying to focus on Inquisition business while wearing his clothes, meant pretending she didn't notice the way his eyes followed her every movement.

"Of course," she said, gathering her composure. "I'll be there shortly."

______________________________________________________________

Cullen forced himself to move away from the parapet, to return to his office and gather the reports Josephine would undoubtedly want to review. But his hands shook slightly as he shuffled through the papers, and he had to take several deep breaths before he could trust himself to walk to the war room without embarrassing himself.

By the time he reached the familiar chamber, Josephine was already there, spreading maps across the great table. Leliana materialized from the shadows a moment later, her expression unreadable as always.

"Ah, Cullen," the Spymaster said with a smile. "Perfect timing. We've received word from—"

"The Western Approach situation is deteriorating rapidly," Josephine said without looking up as she placed reports across the great table. "We need to discuss troop movements, supply lines—" She gestured to the map with one hand while reaching for another stack of reports with the other. "The Inquisitor should be here momentarily."

Cullen positioned himself across from the door, his back to the great window, trying to focus on the maps spread before him. But his mind kept wandering to the image of Cordelia in his shirt, to the way the morning light had caught in her hair, to the soft smile she'd given him from across the courtyard.

Perhaps he'd imagined it. The lyrium withdrawal still plagued him with strange dreams and half-waking visions. Perhaps his desire for her had finally driven him to—

"Commander?" Leliana's voice cut through his thoughts. "What are your thoughts on the supply routes from the Exalted Plains?"

Cullen blinked, refocusing on the spymaster. "Right. The supply routes. We'll need to establish a secure line from the camps located in the Exalted Plains to the Western Approach camps, but the terrain is challenging. If we position guards at the mountain passes—"

The door opened.

Cullen's words died in his throat as Cordelia entered, and his breath caught all over again. She was still wearing his shirt, still had his belt cinched around her waist, and the sight of her in his clothes sent fire racing through his veins.

"My apologies for the delay," she said, her voice slightly breathless as their eyes met across the table. For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them.

"No matter," Josephine said, glancing between them with barely concealed curiosity. "The Commander was just explaining the supply route situation. Shall we begin?"

Cullen realized both women were looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue his explanation. He cleared his throat, his voice hoarse when he spoke again.

"The supply routes," he managed. "We were discussing... the the supply routes."

The comment made Cordelia's cheeks flush pink, and she quickly turned her attention to the maps spread across the table. "What's the current situation?"

As they began to discuss the Western Approach, Cullen found himself watching Cordelia more than the maps. Every time she leaned forward to point out a location, his shirt would shift, revealing more of her shoulder or the curve of her neck. When she reached across the table for a report, the fabric pulled taut across her chest, and he had to grip the edge of the table to keep his hands steady.

She was doing it on purpose. He was sure of it now. The way she bit her lower lip when she caught him staring, the subtle arch of her back when she stretched to reach something—she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

"Commander?" Josephine's voice cut through his thoughts. "Your opinion on the flanking maneuver?"

Cullen blinked, realizing he'd been staring at Cordelia again. "I... could you repeat the question?"

Leliana made a soft sound that might have been amusement. "Perhaps we should take a brief recess? The Commander seems rather... distracted this morning."

"No," Cullen said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "I'm fine. Please, continue."

But as the meeting wore on, the tension in the room grew thick enough to cut with a knife. Every glance between him and Cordelia was charged with unspoken desire, every accidental brush of their hands over the maps sent sparks through his entire body. By the time they finished discussing the last of the tactical options, Cullen was wound so tight he thought he might snap.

"Well," Josephine said, gathering her papers with obvious satisfaction, "I think we've covered everything. Unless there are any other matters to discuss?"

Cordelia's eyes met his across the table, and the look she gave him was full of promise and challenge in equal measure. "I believe the Commander and I have some… additional details to work out regarding the reports from Scout Harding."

"Of course," Leliana said smoothly, already moving toward the door. "Take all the time you need."

As the door closed behind the two women, silence settled over the war room like a heavy blanket. For a long moment, they simply stared at each other across the table, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between them.

Then Cullen moved.

He came around the table with deliberate, predatory grace, his eyes never leaving hers. Cordelia's breath hitched as he approached, her pulse quickening at the intensity in his gaze. She could see the barely leashed desire in the way he moved, the tension in his shoulders, the dark heat in his amber eyes.

"Cullen," she whispered, but the word came out breathless and wanting.

He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the lingering scent of leather and steel and sweat from his morning training. Her back pressed against the edge of the great table as he leaned over her, one hand bracing against the wooden surface beside her hip.

"You have no idea," he murmured, his voice rough and low, "what you do to me."

The flush that had been creeping up her neck all morning bloomed across her cheeks, and her breathing grew shallow as he crowded closer. She could feel the solid warmth of his chest against hers, could see the way his eyes darkened as they traced the line of her throat, the bare shoulder where his shirt had slipped.

"Cullen," she breathed again, and this time his name sounded like a prayer.

He kissed her then, fierce and claiming, a release of the careful restraint finally shattering under the weight of his need. She melted against him, her hands fisting in the leather of his armor as she kissed him back with equal fervor. The kiss was hungry, desperate, full of all the words they hadn't spoken and all the desire they'd been holding back.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, she was practically sprawled across the table behind her, and Cullen was leaning over her with his hands braced on either side of her body. The maps and reports lay forgotten beneath them, and she could feel the solid wood of the table against her back. She

reached for the hem of his shirt where it hung loose around her hips, her fingers catching the soft linen as she began to pull it upward.

"Don't." His voice was rough, commanding, and his hand covered hers to still her movements. "Leave it on."

The heat in his eyes as he looked at her wearing his clothes was unmistakable, and she felt a thrill of satisfaction knowing she'd been right about what it did to him. She'd chosen to wear his shirt this morning with full knowledge of what it meant, what it would do to him, and seeing his reaction now made her pulse race.

"As you wish, Commander." She said with a grin, her deep blue eyes sparkling. She held his gaze as leaned over her once more.

Then she felt his lips against her throat, hot and demanding, his tongue tracing the line of her pulse before his teeth grazed the sensitive skin. The sensation sent fire racing through her veins and she arched beneath him, a soft, breathless sound escaping her lips that was barely human. He worked his way along her neck with deliberate intent, each kiss, each scrape of teeth making her shudder with want.

She let her eyes flutter closed for a moment, her head tilting back against the table as she tried to catch her breath. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear the blood rushing in her ears, and she was acutely aware of every point where his body had pressed against hers.

Then his warmth left her.

Still with her eyes closed, she reached for him instinctively, her hand finding only empty air. The absence was jarring, leaving her bereft and aching for his touch.

The sound of metal hitting stone made her eyes snap open.

His sword had just hit the floor across the room where he stood by the door. When he turned back to her, the heat in his eyes was unmistakable, and she could see the predatory grace in his movements as he began to stalk back toward her.

"The door," she managed, though her voice was barely a whisper.

"Locked," he said, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice.

The man was definitely on a mission, and from the way he was looking at her sprawled across the war table, she had a very good idea what that mission entailed.

[inquisiorastoria]

"This is why the Maker left." for Cullen/Astoria OR Astoria & Cass

Yippieee please enjoy some Cass & Astoria party for my first THWEEE! @thedasweekend

Cassandra Pentaghast did not indulge much outside of routine.

Most people knew that she was a woman of little patience and even fewer passions. Her mind she sharpened with scripture, her will she sharpened with prayer. Her body she honed with repetition and combative instincts woven into her very core.

Her passions were small and private— her inner world privy only to those who had dared get close enough to risk harm to understand her. To find out that she spent her time with her back rounded in a posture that would make the Lord Seeker weep, nose stuffed firmly into stories of dark, daring knights and blushing maidens.

The words would whisk her away to lands familiar and foreign to her— and she daydreamed when she was not dedicating her entire being to being a hand of the Maker's purpose. She would stay up late as the candle on her desk pooled wax along the floor, read until her eyes burned and the pages blurred in front of her. She would cry when the heroes would cry, and throw her book when a protagonist would declare his love at the inopportune time.

This was her time and her time alone—and nothing would make her deviate.

So when the Inquisitor came to her, unable to make eye contact, fists at her side, hackles raised, and demanded, "I need you to teach me how to read."

Cassandra's first, immediate reaction was simply, "No."

Who did the Inquisitor think she was? Cassandra was not anyone's personal tutor; she was not someone who could sit and teach and coddle someone like Astoria Trevelyan, encouraging her to sound things out or running practice writing drills with a soft smile on her face and a word of encouragement.

She was not someone who could offer that. She never would be.

And so she had said no. The Inquisitor, to her credit, took Cassandra's no with as much grace as she could offer, and only huffed and walked off. She did not tantrum, not that the Inquisitor ever did, but she also did not snark either. She simply accepted Cassandra's firm decline and left.

Cassandra returned to her routine of reading her book out in the yard.

It was only two days later when Cassandra was in the courtyard again, and something shifted across the yard that drew her eye. She spotted Astoria sitting on the ground in the garden, half camouflaged by late spring foliage. Her brows were furrowed in intense concentration, with her eyes fixated on the tablet that was propped up on her knees in front of her. The quill in her hand looked odd and misplaced, the only feathers Cassandra had ever seen her handle with fletching, which Astoria could handle with practiced ease. The quill was awkward and clumsy in comparison, and she moved it in a hesitant, unsteady manner across the parchment.

Cassandra watched from a safe distance as the Inquisitor’s concentration shifted into a deep frown. Astoria’s face became red with rage, and she whipped the tablet and quill in frustration into a garden bed before letting her head drop to her knees, arms wrapping around her legs.

The Inquisitor looked very small in that moment—sensitive and embarrassed in a way that she very rarely looked. This was a battle she clearly had fought many times, alone, and lost.

Before Cassandra could stop herself she was already halfway down the path to the garden, hands on both her hips as she crowded over the Inquisitor, waiting for her to speak.

Astoria did not offer up anything first. She rarely did. Cassandra decided to take the lead instead.

"What are you doing." It was less a question, more a demand for information, and the Inquisitor grunted back, the silence lapsing another few seconds before she peeked her tired eyes above her crossed arms.

"Josephine said I need to start…signing things. So…I was trying…I was trying to learn how to write my name." Astoria admitted, head tilting back and lolling against the stone behind her. She raised her arm to point over at the discarded tablet to the left of her. " I can't get it, but you can see for yourself so you can judge how bad it looks."

Cassandra fished the tablet out of the bed, shaking off the soil and taking a solid look at the work herself to make her own judgment, ignoring the dirt and smudged ink and unconfident lines. Astoria had been trying, it seems, for a while, as the page was nearly filled top to bottom with a hapless, smeared scrawl. The letters were misshapen, often more unreadable than not. But what caught Cassandra's attention were the first few lines at the very top.

Trevelyan—misspelled at least three times over before a blot of ink was hastily scribbled over the majority of the top half of the page.

"Stop analyzing it and just tell me how ugly it is already—"Astoria snapped, her cheeks were still blotchy with color, and she averted Cassandra's eyes entirely. "It just has to look…passable. Eventually. That's what Josephine said, whatever that means."

Cassandra could see that the confession had wrung Astoria out. Looking down at their leader, curled up upon herself, Cassandra saw someone young, someone short with themselves. Who had not wanted the burden of her station, who had actively fought against it but shouldered it anyway. Someone who had clearly tried to do this one thing by themselves for so long and had gotten nowhere.

And Cassandra had told her no.

She thought of the heroes in her stories. Of the dashing swordsmen and clever mages, of the way fiction could force ice through her veins or send heat curling deep in her belly. How her daily readings of the Chant had given her a well to draw from in her darkest moments when she was sure the Void would consume her. When she had fasted and hollowed herself out, how Andraste's words had guided her out of the pit to bring her back to herself.

And then she thought of Astoria. To be cut off from that completely. To have your own common tongue inaccessible to you through no fault of your own. To look at a sign in the Crossroads and squint at it and to see… nothing.

To rely on others constantly and hope they would not deceive you.

"When you write your name, you must first make sure that the first letter is capitalized—" Astoria looked up at her as if she had just begun talking in a foreign language, which Cassandra realized that she might as well have been. Cassandra fished the quill out of a thorny bush, found the inkwell on the bench, and dipped the nib into the ink, flipping the parchment over.

"Write the first letter, T, larger than the other. Cross the line at the top rather than the middle." She demonstrated quickly, probably more quickly than was useful, writing, 'Trevelyan' out fully as an example, and held the quill and tablet out. Astoria gave her a long, displeased sideways glance and then plucked them both back, setting them into her lap again. She put the tip to the parchment in a bit of a ham-fisted grip, but Cassandra did not correct it.

Two shaky lines later, the T was there. And then slightly below it, the lowercase 'r' and the rest of the surname followed, misshapen, but spelled correctly. Cassandra could see Astoria's eyes flicking back and forth between Cassandra's sample and her own writing, assessing and making micro adjustments as she tried to copy it.

Astoria tried again three more times. And each iteration improved upon the last. Her last attempt was completely readable, much more than any of the others on the opposite side of the page.

Astoria held the parchment up for Cassandra's inspection, and Cassandra nodded.

"It is better."

"Shit, thank the Maker for that—" Astoria exhaled and looked at both of her hands, which were thoroughly coated in ink. She stared at them with an almost childlike wonder that made something unidentifiable twist deep in Cassandra's chest.

Cassandra wrestled with the decision. The Inquisitor would be no easy student. Astoria despised routine. Someone else could do this — there were plenty of well-qualified individuals in Skyhold.

"I will teach you to read."

"You will?" Astoria blinked, clearly bewildered. " Two days ago you said no—"

"That was earlier. I have changed my mind."

"Yes, you did, but why."

"I am capable of changing my mind."

"Are you?"

Cassandra's left eye twitched.

"We will meet every day in the afternoon for at least an hour—"

"—every day? What? No, that's too—"

"—and you will study the Chant of Light. It will be a good place to start. The passages have been written in a way that will teach you advanced vocabulary if you study hard. And you are to study and practice while we are not meeting."

"The Chant?! Cassandra, come on—"

"It is the Chant of Light first. If you wish to read other things you will do so on your own time."

Astoria cycled through several emotions very quickly, before settling on a mixture of what looked like all of them. "So you'll never let me read those books you're always hiding away, huh? Varric told me those were the smutty ones."

Cassandra offered Astoria a long, flat look. "This is why the Maker left."

Astoria's mouth twitched, not quite a smirk, but the sprout of one. "And I'm sure you could tell me all about that," she said.

"I will not tell you. You will learn it for yourself."

Cassandra Pentaghast did not indulge much out of routine, but perhaps she would make an exception.

Besides, this was not indulging anything out of her routine; it was simply reshaping it.

[veil-song]

Hi there! For Thedas Weekend, perhaps Davrin/Bellara with “neck kisses that turn into love bites” from the “kiss & tell” list?

Squeaking in at the last minute for this @thedasweekend prompt because *deepest breath* I! LOVE! BELLAVRIN!!!!!! Thanks so much for prompting me this/giving me an excuse to write these sweeties!

Hands-on Research (~1200 words) on ao3! Davrin/Bellara Lutare Rated M just to be safe (sexual content) cw: none

Davrin's well on his way to dropping off into a doze, one hand splayed wide across the small of Bellara's back and the other pillowed beneath his head when he feels Bellara stir, shifting closer to him beneath rumpled sheets. She's a cuddler, but only when she can sit still long enough after. Davrin's an advocate for the tried and true post-coital nap, just a brief respite to get warm and cozy together and rest up before Warden stamina demands another round, but Bellara seldom gets with that program. That she's stuck around to nuzzle up next to him instead of immediately running for her notebook and pen is a miracle.

Privately, Davrin's starting to think that he's probably jostling the thoughts around in that big beautiful brain of hers until the right ones fall out and turn into solutions. He's not even mad that she'll just give him a quick peck and leap out of bed to write or tinker, because he gets to enjoy the view of her pacing in front of the fireplace with an untied robe or one of his shirts before he drops off into a nap.

He hums, arm curling around her, tousled strands of her loose hair tickling the back of his arm when she tilts her head up. No reason to open his eyes yet. Nothing to do but enjoy the moment, the rare opportunity to hold her close and feel the beat of her heart. A peace they've both fought for, warmth and contentment their prize.

Then Bellara scoots up, lips landing soft as raindrops on Davrin's shoulder, aimless and sweet. He cracks one eye open just long enough to give her a questioning glance before he lets it go. He's not gonna look a gift halla in the mouth. The brilliant, sweet, infuriatingly restless woman he loves is sitting still long enough to mouth at his skin, and the last thing he wants to do is dissuade her.

Peppering kisses up his shoulder, Bellara noses at the junction of Davrin's neck and shoulder, lingering at the hollow of his throat. Davrin's fingers card through the seemingly endless silken strands of her hair as she kisses his neck. The way she presses her mouth to his skin feels like she's trying to memorize him through touch alone.

It feels nice. It feels so nice. Davrin isn't sure if he wants to continue to drowse while she kisses his neck, or if he wants to wake more fully to better appreciate it.

Then, just as she moves, lips trailing to the center of his throat, he feels it: the scrape of her teeth against his skin, gentle too deliberate to be an accident.

Davrin groans, feeling his skin prickle, and opens his eyes just in time to glimpse Bellara nuzzle to the other side of his throat. She's draped halfway across his chest now, and Davrin is growing far too aware of all of the places their skin is touching.

Kissing up the other side of his neck, Davrin feels the moment she starts to bite as much as kiss. When she reaches the tender skin just beneath his earlobe she nips, hard enough that Davrin's cock begins to sit up and take notice.

"Bel," Davrin hand sliding up from the small of her back. "What're you doing?"

"Oh. Nothing!" she says, and promptly starts a valiant attempt to leave an imprint of her teeth in Davrin's neck.

If the immediate denial wasn't enough to make him suspicious, the edge of contrived innocence in her voice would. Unfortunately, his dick is making a convincing argument that he shouldn't care too much, unhelped by the invigorating sting of pain that accompanies Bellara's teeth working at his skin.

"Uh….right," he says, trying to keep himself on track. He loops her hair around his fingers, never hard enough to pull or yank, but just enough to suggest where she could move. "I'm totally convinced."

Bellara hums a considering noise against his throat, pressing a tender kiss against the spot of skin she's been abusing. "You are? How fast did - I mean. Good. I'm glad we're on the same page."

"Bel." Davrin pushes her away just enough for them to look at each other. Her cheeks are pink, lips flushed from kissing him, and she looks entirely too pleased with herself. Alarm horns of suspicion blare in Davrin's head. "Bel, are you doing research for your next story?"

"No!" Again, the immediate denial isn't convincing. "Maybe I just wanted to see, uh, how long it would theoretically take for someone to get…aroused…just from being kissed and bitten, and -"

"And the fact that the protagonist in your next story is a werewolf is just a happy accident?"

Bel bites her lip, and that's how Davrin knows he's got her. He releases her hair to cup her cheek, and immediately feels her lean into the cradle of his palm, her clever fingers so quick to reach out for him in turn.

"You're not…mad? That I use you for research? I know I can ask a lot of questions, and I know the physical aspect of research is…okay, I should have asked. I'm sorry, I don't want you to think I'm using you, and -"

Davrin pulls her into a kiss, heated and demanding enough to cut her brain off at the pass. She sags against him; the way she sighs feels like relief. It's never a hardship, kissing Bellara until her brain shuts off. Davrin pulls her closer until she gets the picture and slings her thigh over his hip, straddling his waist, so he can run his hand down the long, soft line of her back to her ass.

"I'm never gonna be mad." Davrin punctuated the statement with a squeeze to yielding flesh that makes her start and giggle. "Quick question though…how urgent is this research?"

"How do you mean?"

"Scale of one to ten?"

"Uhhh." Bellara frowns, blowing her hair out of her face as she thinks. "Like a…four? I was just getting ideas for the scene, but I haven't quite figured out the dialogue and -"

Anything less than a six, Davrin figures he's good as gold. He rolls her easily, reversing their positions as she squeaks, and suddenly she's looking up at him with delighted surprise. She loops her arms around his neck, just in case he had any crazy thoughts like moving elsewhere.

"Would it help if I demonstrated just how aroused someone can get from having their neck gnawed on by a determined little werewolf?" Davrin asks, hand catching her behind the knee.

Color high on her cheeks and a slow smile curling her lips, Bellara nods. Davrin kisses that smile, feeling her melt against him, before he noses down her jaw to drag his lips against the tender skin of her neck, where she still smells faintly of sweat and lingering perfume. Her throat bobs beneath his lips, inviting Davrin to leave a bite or two of his own.

Never let it be said that Davrin doesn't give as good as he gets.

[caughtnyact]

Yay Thedas Weekend! For Emmrich/f!Mercar: "Tell me where it hurts, and be specific." from the injury dialogue prompts?

Hi hi! This is so late because I got way too into this idea lmao thank you for enabling me to provide this nonsense for @thedasweekend

Rook dislocates her shoulder and goes to her resident necromancer for some medical assistance (and no other reason whatsoever.) Rook makes it weird. Pre-romance because the unaddressed sexual tension is hilarious, and I have a puckish side that will not be denied

Mature - 1,491 words

“Rook, are you sure you’re okay?” Neve emerged gracefully from the Vi’Revas, turning back to make sure Bellara and Rook were close behind.

“Oh, you know,” Rook laughed through a wince, “I’ll just need to lay down for a bit.”

“Rook. You fell off a building.” Neve’s tone expressed concern, but her eyes betrayed an amusement at how ridiculous their trip to Treviso ended up being. It was Bellara that had the idea to ambush the group of Venatori by catching air off of a zipline. It certainly caught them by surprise when Rook had overshot the landing and flew over the edge of the roof.

“It’s fiiiiiiine, Neve,” Rook dismissed. “I’m just happy that I landed in that cart of cabbages.” Neve was unconvinced; Rook seemed to be fine, but her mageknife arm has remained at her side since they dispatched the Venatori.

As the ladies made their way up the steps towards the main room of the library, Neve got an idea. “Hey, Rook,” she tossed her pen at Rook’s left side, “Catch!”

Rook reflexively reached out her hand to catch the pen. “Fuck—” she cried as her arm stalled out and the pen fell to the floor.

“Ah, yes, how silly of me to be concerned.”

“Ya know, Rook, you should really get your shoulder checked out,” Bellara chimed in. “I can stabilize injuries in a pinch, but I’m not a professional.” Rook rubbed her shoulder, feeling the odd angle that her bone jutted out. Perhaps this wasn’t an injury she could walk off after all.

Neve’s lips curled into a smirk. “Let’s go, Bellara— Rook has an appointment with our most enthusiastic healer.” Rook dramatically rolled her eyes as the two ladies split off towards the kitchen while she continued up the library stairs.

Rook hesitated to knock on the laboratory door. The ladies were right to tease her; Rook had flirted a few times with their resident necromancer, but she could not get a read on how he felt about it all. It started out as playful friendliness on her part, but she quickly found him to be an interesting man of superior intellect; it also helped that he was extremely easy on the eyes.

The sound of Manfred's feet clacking down the hallway snapped her out of her daydreaming. “Hiss!”

"Hiya, Manfred! How's my favorite boy doing?" Rook couldn’t help but smile as she patted the top of his skull. The second Emmrich revealed his skeleton assistant, she insisted he come along with them. Manfred had taken very quickly to her upon their arrival to the Lighthouse as well. They played many a game of Rock Paper Scissors, after all.

Manfred grabbed at Rook’s hand to lead her into the laboratory, as he always did, but Rook winced in pain. “Ah— Sorry, buddy, that’s why I’m here, actually.”

He stopped in his tracks, tilting his skull in confusion. “Hiss?”

Rook could hear Emmrich’s hurried footsteps down the stairs, clearly startled by the commotion. "Manfred, are you alright? I heard a shout— Oh, Rook! What might I do for you, my dear?”

“Hiss!” Manfred pointed at Rook’s arm.

“Hey, Emmrich,” Rook smiled. “Had a little mishap in Treviso and was wondering if you might be able to take a look at it.”

"Ah,” Emmrich clicked his teeth, “Of course, darling. Please show me where it hurts, and be specific." She gestured to her shoulder with her other hand. Emmrich ghosted his fingers over the bone, wincing as she flinched under his touch.

“Just so! Rook, your shoulder is almost certainly dislocated. Thankfully it appears to be a simple subluxation— if it were a full dislocation, this would have been much more unpleasant.”

“Soooo…. would you be able to pop it back in so I can get back into the field?”

Emmrich simply gestured for Rook to lay down on the exam table. She hesitantly hopped up onto the table and waited for instruction.

He stepped away for a second, returning with a small throw pillow. “Please lie down, if you would,” he instructed. As she laid her head down, Emmrich tapped the table gently next to her ear.

“Oh, thank you,” Rook blushed and lifted her head for him to gingerly slide the pillow under her.

Rook looked up at him through her lashes as he stood behind her head. From this angle, her mind wandered to dangerous places. It would be so easy for her to tilt her head back and open her mouth for him to use as he pleased. She was grateful that Emmrich couldn't read her mind.

"First thing's first, my dear," he asserted, "I must ensure your trapezius is as relaxed as possible. It would cause you more harm to attempt this while you are tense."

He reached over to grab some kind of massage oil, pouring a coin-sized amount onto his hands and rubbed them together to distribute it evenly. This was not how Rook had imagined this would go, but she certainly didn’t mind. “I’m going to touch you now,” he explained. “The oil might feel a tad warm.”

Come on, Rook, she pleaded with herself. Think about something unsexy.

All rational thought ceased completely as hands met skin. Whether it was something in this massage oil or whatever kind of magic he was imbuing his hands with, Rook felt the most delicious warmth spread through her muscles. He started at her neck, wrapping his delicate fingers around her throat. As his thumbs began to work the deep-set knots down the back of her neck, Rook fought the urge to sink into his touch.

“My word, these muscles are tight.”

“I appreciate you helping me out,” Rook admitted. “I owe you big time— Neve was practically ready to drag me back through the eluvian to see the Shadows’ medic.”

“Perish the thought, my dear. You do so much for us all, it’s the least I could do.”

His thumbs continued to rub circles into her neck— breathing steadily was becoming increasingly difficult. Emmrich must have sensed this, as he pulled his hands away. “Rook, I fear you aren’t relaxing. Perhaps it would help to do some breathing exercises.”

“Okay,” Rook exhaled, “How do I do that?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple. Just breathe through your nose, like so,” he demonstrated, “and out through your mouth.” As Rook began to do the same, Emmrich poured more oil onto his hands. She felt herself becoming lightheaded as her breathing remained shallow.

He tutted soothingly as he returned to his ministrations. “You’re breathing too quickly, my dear. I find it helps to count down in my head,” he suggested. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Rook felt her shoulders finally easing, her eyes closing as she surrendered to his touch. His hands started moving towards her front along the clavicles. “That’s it, darling. Slow. Deep.”

This is getting way too erotic, Rook thought as she rubbed her thighs together for some kind of relief. She could feel herself starting to blush across her chest as his hands continued further away from her shoulders. There was no way he didn’t know what he was doing to her, right? She searched his face for any indication of his intentions, but he appeared to be completely unfazed. Rook closed her eyes once more and tried to focus on the task at hand. The last thing she’d want to do is make him uncomfortable, especially while he was doing her a kindness. She had barely noticed as his left hand swiftly crossed over to meet with the other, working towards her injured shoulder. His right hand moved gently around the joint towards her back, and without warning he quickly snapped her shoulder back into place.

“Oh fuck—” Rook threw her head back as the most obscene moan escaped her lips. As she came back to herself, Rook saw the color had almost completely drained from Emmrich’s face. The professional composure had finally slipped— the sound of her pleasure practically bounced off the laboratory walls and straight to his cock. She thanked the Maker Himself that she was still eye-level with his quickly tightening trousers.

“My word,” he breathed. His hands were still holding onto Rook’s shoulder for dear life, as if to ground himself. He quickly removed them before he lingered too long. “I mean, that is to say, you should be all set now.”

Rook sat up and flexed her arm for signs of pain. “It feels good as new! Thank you again, Emmrich.”

“You are most welcome, darling. If you’re amenable, I would like to see you again— to ensure that nothing else needs to be done, of course.” Clearly still flustered, Emmrich retreated to find a cloth to wipe his oily hands on.

“Oh, you know me,” Rook smirked. “I’m sure I’ll find any excuse to come see you again.”