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It starts out so mundane.
They’re folded together on the sofa in Taren’s room, Emmrich tucked against the armrest, Taren nestled into his side. Here in the Fade, there’s no night to darken the world beyond the windows, but there’s a sense of collecting quiet, of stillness. Candlelight softens the edges of everything.
Between them, there’s silence, broken only by the sound of pages turning. Or by cups of tea (peppermint, Taren’s favourite) poured and clinked together. The occasional remark from one of them on their respective books. It’s easy and ordinary – and when did such closeness with Taren start to feel normal? As if it were the natural way of things?
Perhaps it could be. Perhaps it already is.
A dangerous thought. Emmrich presses his lips together and pulls his awareness back to his book. It’s a study of Rivani spirit possession, an art so similar to his own corpse whispering, yet so different. He runs through the basic gestures of his corpse whispering incantation with his free hand, trying to sketch out the feel of it. Rivaini Seers speak for the spirit, rather than compelling the spirit to speak through the lips of the dead – and if he could just articulate the difference in the underlying theory –
Taren is looking at him.
Emmrich isn’t sure how exactly he becomes aware of this. A near-imperceptible shift of their body, perhaps, or his brain registering the deeper silence as they stop turning pages. Emmrich turns his head, and finds that Taren’s eyes are not on his face, but on his raised hand. Their body is full of that absolute stillness Emmrich has seen in them before: when they pause before loosing an arrow; when they go silent in the team’s strategy sessions, mind whirring silently, seeking connections; when they set some ancient elven scroll down on a table and start, with heartbreaking care, to render its words into Trade.
Such entire, targeted focus. Trained on Emmrich’s hands.
They must notice Emmrich looking at them, because they start and then duck their head. After a few seconds, they say, looking firmly at the floor, ‘I like watching your hands.’
Emmrich smiles. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘When you use your magic.’ Taren glances up, their head still lowered, but their eyes flickering back to Emmrich’s. ‘You’re. Um.’ A pause. ‘It’s like they’re dancing.’
Their eyes drop away again. So embarrassed by their own feelings. Emmrich’s heart billows, and he lays his book down on the coffee table and lays a hand over Taren’s. ‘You flatter me, my dear.’
‘It’s not flattery if it’s true.’
Emmrich chuckles, and the tension trickles out of Taren’s frame. They set their own book down and curl their fingers around Emmrich’s, turning his gloved hand over to trace circles on his palm with their thumb.
‘The weave of the Fade is all around us,’ Emmrich murmurs. ‘I feel it, sometimes, reacting to the smallest movement of my hands. And when it comes to spell gestures, it does pay to be graceful, where one can. It always responds more to the gentle touch.’
Taren’s fingers go still. They swallow, then look very deliberately into Emmrich’s face. ‘Most things do.’
And – oh. Oh.
Something catches in Emmrich’s chest. A breath that falters as he takes it in. A bone-deep warmth unfurling.
Emmrich is no stranger to desire. He’s found companionship among the circles of the Mourn Watch; he’s felt plenty of skin. But there’s something about this new want, the want that’s been steadily building in him over the last few months, simmering quietly, then rising to a boil when he least anticipates it.
The first time it hit him – they’d been fighting one of those blighted champions of the gods. Emmrich was sprawled on his back, reeling from a blow, terror choking his every sense. And then Taren leaped right over him, one smooth and powerful motion, burying both blades deep in the monster’s throat.
It was inexcusably reckless. Taren is an archer. They belong on the fringes of the battle, not risking themself in the depths of the fray. But they – they stepped away from the blighted body and turned to him, blood on their lips, hair all askew, face rigid with concern as they held out a hand to help him up.
The intensity of what hit him then, as he looked at Taren – as their hand closed around his –
His skin was on fire, and he could barely so much as breathe.
Then there was that mortifying, thrilling moment in the library, when Taren came through on their way back from the bathhouse. Hair undone, arms bare (such arms!) And after their dinner in the Memorial Gardens just a few days ago. They parted outside Emmrich’s room, but not before a long, lingering kiss goodnight, Taren on tiptoe, their hands folded around the lapels of Emmrich’s waistcoat.
He was a breath, a second, a doubt away from asking them inside with him. The words were on his tongue. Would you care to spend the night with me, dearest? I find myself unwilling to let you go.
He didn’t say it. The door closed between them, and he listened to Taren’s footsteps heading away.
It’s just that Taren is – not young, maybe. They must be a little into their forties, and yet Emmrich can never forget that their hair still has most of its colour, that their face is still marked by only a few lines. If the two of them – if they….
Well, everyone will know. Taash with their sense of smell, Neve with her uncanny knack for spotting details. They’ll know, and then what will they think of him? Will there be whispers when the two of them aren’t present, calculating the differences between their ages, brows raised in disapproval? What will they call him, the older necromancer who has somehow managed to charm the most beautiful person in Thedas into his bed?
How much of it will be true?
(Taren is still looking at him, eyes searching his face, and Emmrich should say something, anything, but his mind is spinning away from his own grasp –)
He wants to. Oh, he wants. But all of Thedas wants something from Taren. The last thing they need is another person’s needs, another person’s wants.
So Emmrich never asks. He keeps the wanting inside, and does all he can to soften the ground beneath Taren’s feet. Taren so seldom asks for things they want, for things they need, and how could they? They spent their formative years enslaved in Tevinter, a truth that’s sickening every time Emmrich remembers it. They weren’t supposed to want anything at all. And how Emmrich loves to intuit the wants Taren still cannot say aloud, to fulfil them, without ever being asked.
He brews them mint tea and brings them cups while they work. He tends to them after every battle, checking them for injuries, always a little healing magic channelled into that stiff left wrist. He buys them books and Antivan chocolates and lets them use him as a sounding board when they’re working on that narrative epic they’re translating from elvhen. It’s wonderful, watching their shoulders loosen, their breathing slow, their face relax into a smile, and know that he could give them comfort.
Push his wants away, put them aside, tend to Taren’s, always to Taren’s – and now Taren is looking up at him with a quiet intensity behind their eyes, and –
They want him.
The warmth in Emmrich’s chest sharpens into a heat. Taren struggles so much to ask for the things they want, but through this – the touch of their hand, the urgent focus of their eyes – they are asking something now.
A hunger, something frighteningly close to greed, punches through every inch of Emmrich’s skin. He aches to touch them, to touch more than just their hands. Quite frankly, he’s not sure he’s ever wanted anything so badly in his life.
Emmrich raises his free hand and traces his fingertips against Taren’s cheek. The pad of his thumb comes to rest against their cheekbone, the heel of his palm just brushing the edge of their lips. Somehow, he manages to pry his mouth open, and to whisper into the space between them: ‘Is that what you wish, dearest?’
Taren turns their head the fraction needed to press their lips to Emmrich’s palm. And – oh, he’s kissed Taren time and time again, kissed them deeply, and yet something about this soft graze of lips against skin makes something lurch inside him. Their eyes stay on his, steady and sure.
‘Yes,’ they say, breath-soft. ‘I wish.’
Emmrich stares at them for one suspended moment.
Then he’s falling in and kissing them, kissing them, deep and sweet and slow. And Taren is kissing back with a sound of sheer relief, pulling free from where their hands are entwined to grip the back of Emmrich’s neck.
Emmrich has learned these lips well. He has learned their feel and their taste. He has learned that Taren kisses the same way they do everything else: careful and intense and with utter, undeviating focus. But now they are pressing in close, hands threading through Emmrich’s hair – oh, there is more to learn of them, and he is so close to learning it – so close to them –
Weight shifts; Taren has slipped into his lap in an unhurried motion. Emmrich winds his arms around their back, palms against their shirt. He thinks, helplessly, but you could have anyone for the asking, and I should not, at my age.
But they’re here. They want him. And if this is what they want – if he is what they want – then oh, Emmrich will give himself. He’ll give them everything. He will make every moment something to savour, he will leave them wanting for nothing.
He leans in to press his face to the crook of their neck, working a trail of kisses up to the velvet skin of the underside of their jaw. There are a couple of scars there, two sharp little cuts that Emmrich has an awful suspicion might have been made by arrows glancing just shy of Taren’s throat. That thought makes him pull them in a little tighter, kiss a little deeper, and Taren makes a sound that’s half a gasp and half a sigh.
And then they pull back, their breath shuddering, head suddenly lowered. They blink a few times, one hand trailing down Emmrich’s chest and coming to rest over his heart. Their eyes have flickered to the side.
‘Emmrich.’ Their voice is low, again, but there’s something colouring it now that isn’t desire. Emmrich studies the rigid set of their shoulders, the averted gaze. ‘You know I –’ A pause. ‘You know I’m tel’ash.’
One of the elvhen phrases Emmrich has learned from them and Bellara: without gender. ‘Of course. And I assure you, my opinion on the attractiveness of self-realisation has not changed.’
The trace of a smile at the edge of those adored lips. ‘It’s just…’ Taren swallows, then says in a sudden rush: ‘I was never a woman. But my body was… I don’t know how to say this. I’m sorry. I don’t know…’
They press the side of their hand to their mouth. They look like an animal caught in lamplight, and Emmrich catches their other hand and pulls it to his lips. Kisses it twice, soft as he can. ‘Say it in elvhen, darling.’
It’s a rhythm they’ve found, over the course of their courtship. When Taren’s tongue falters at the words they need for their feelings, other languages offer them a lifeline that Trade does not. They find it safer to speak, Emmrich thinks, when they know he does not understand.
Taren is still for a moment. Then they drop their hand and say, slowly, ‘Ma gosh na parin’asha. Ar ase, dahna himalen-ma.’
It is such a beautiful language. Poetic, even in ordinary speech. Emmrich drinks it in, then says what he always does: ‘Might I request a translation?’
Because Taren is a translator. Because this helps them: to pretend what they’re saying is just part of their work, a phrase to convert into Trade, not some agonising truth pulled from inside them. And it works, as it usually does. They say, quiet and flat, ‘My body… resembled a woman’s. I changed it, after I found who I really was.’
Ah.
Something cracks a little inside Emmrich’s chest. It could not possibly matter less to him what parts Taren has, but… Taren grew up in Tevinter. Tevinter, where the rules around what gender one can be and who may lie with whom are rigid and cruel.
‘My Keeper helped me. To get rid of these.’ Taren taps their chest. ‘And he made sure I couldn’t conceive. I was fine with everything else being as it was, so I left it alone. I just wanted to make sure you knew what to expect. And that you’re… fine with it.’
‘Taren, my dear.’ Emmrich clasps his hand tight around theirs. Closes his eyes for a moment, searching for the right words. ‘One of the great honours and responsibilities of being a Watcher is the trust with which others place their bodies in your hands. They do so on the understanding that when I prepare them for the Necropolis, I will accept every inch of them. I will see every hidden part, every secret, and treat it with reverence.’
Taren’s eyes flicker away from the floor, and come to rest on where their hands are joined.
‘Bodies are – so infinitely precious. In all their myriad, inimitable forms, every last one a story. To prepare a body is an act of worship for the person who once inhabited it. And to have you entrust your living body to my hands, a body whose shape you have chosen, an artwork of your own design…’ He waits until they finally return their eyes to his. ‘My dear, it is a privilege.’
Taren stares at him. In the candlelight, their eyes look liquid.
‘It’s unfair that you’re so good with words,’ they say, after a silence. ‘When it’s so difficult for me.’
‘Nonsense. I’ve read your work. You have an exquisite turn of phrase.’
This makes them smile, and is Emmrich imagining it? Or does the pulse he feels in their hand quicken slightly? ‘Translating is different.’
‘Because it is your calling.’ Emmrich presses another kiss to their hand. ‘And worshipping the body is mine.’
And oh, that gets the desired response. A subtle shift in their jaw, a hitch in their breath. They swallow, hard, then pull their shirt over their head.
How many times has Emmrich imagined this? Pictured their body, bare and waiting for his hands? And this is infinitely better than his fantasies, because it is real, and because he no longer has to guess at anything. He can see the cascade of freckle over their shoulders and arms, the soft curve of fat over their stomach, the intricate lines and shapes that adorn their tattooed arm. Art embedded in their own skin to commemorate a man Taren once loved, and married, and lost.
(Taren has told him the story. Two Dalish elves, lovers, breaking into museums and noblemen’s homes to reclaim artefacts that belonged to their people. The time in Orlais, eight years ago, when their plan went awry and only one of them escaped. Scarred, bloodied, and alone.)
These things, Emmrich could have guessed at, but there’s more. There, just under the pectoral muscles: two faint scar-lines, like crescent moons balanced on their sides. Any Mourn Watcher knows the difference between the scar left by injury and the scar left by surgery, and these are unquestionably the latter. But those are kind scars, the marks of a body moulded to a more comfortable shape. There are more that tell darker stories, like the jagged lines over their abdomen that look like the swipe of some creature’s claw. Thin, faded lines that might be relics from those days when some Magister claimed to own them, as if they were property. Something to be punished for unimportant mistakes. More arrow marks, perhaps from that awful night in Orlais.
Carefully, oh so carefully, Emmrich traces the outline of the scars with one fingertip. Breathes in their scent: peppermint, and the traces of Arlathan pines. Under his hand, Taren’s breath rises and falls.
‘The world has been unkind to you, my dearest,’ Emmrich murmurs. He leans in and puts his lips to the right-hand surgical scar – an honouring of the act of self-love that created it. They breathe out, a sound that shudders just slightly. ‘Your body has been so cruelly used. You have not been treasured as you deserve.’
His hands stray over their skin, learning the shape of them, feeling every rise of their breath and beat of their blood. Then he reaches up and finds the tie that holds their hair in place. A gentle tug unravels it. Emmrich sets it carefully on the arm of the sofa as black hair falls forward, streaked here and there with silver. Emmrich kisses their neck, their jaw, their cheek.
‘Let me address some of that now, dearest.’ Emmrich breathes the words almost against Taren’s mouth. ‘I promise: you will not want for tenderness tonight.’
For three breaths, Taren stares at him. Their eyes close. They exhale, very slowly.
Then they’re crowding in to kiss him, open-mouthed and deep. Desire shocks through Emmrich’s entire body, and he falls easily into the kiss, licking into Taren’s mouth and tangling his hands in their hair. He’s read plenty of Harding’s serials in their Lighthouse book club, smiled at how she and Bellara giggle over scenes of frantic passion. This is not that. They do not grasp feverishly at each other; they do not rush. Why, Emmrich thinks vaguely, would anyone want to rush this: the very deliberate swirl of Taren’s tongue against his, the narrowing of his perception to the body in his arms, the warmth and closeness of them?
He becomes aware that Taren is working, methodically, through the fastenings of his waistcoat, and perhaps a minute later, that they have started on his shirt. Perhaps he should really apologise for how many buttons there are – but Taren’s fingers move with unhurried precision (an archer’s precision, Emmrich thinks, a translator’s precision). And then their hands are pulling his shirt open and coming to rest on the planes of Emmrich’s torso.
They break the kiss and look at him, and something plunges in his gut. The difference between the two of them is so stark, with them both half-dressed like this. Taren with their powerful archer’s arms and shoulders, bronze skin so heavily freckled from years in the sun, so soft and smooth to the touch. And Emmrich, who is – frankly, next to them, a hairy, gangly being, all angles and lines. Some dark corner of his brain whispers that this is it, the moment when Taren realises they cannot possibly want to make love to someone nearly a decade and a half their senior.
But Taren is smiling. ‘I always forget that humans have so much hair,’ they say, like this is a delightful surprise, and Emmrich chuckles despite himself.
They slide out of his lap, and the removal of their closeness makes Emmrich’s body howl in protest. But then their hand wraps around his, and their eyes are asking a question, and Emmrich rises without hesitation and follows them.
They lead him toward the wall, where a large, circular space has been left bare of the sketches, banners and mosaic fragments that cover every other available space. The circle slides down and open as Taren approaches, revealing another room beyond. Emmrich tries to recall if he has seen this door before. Perhaps not. The Lighthouse is still shifting and changing, like a flower trying to blossom in accordance with the needs of those around it.
The space beyond is small. If Emmrich stood in the middle and stretched out both arms, he would not quite be able to touch the walls, but it would be a close thing. And those walls are, to his surprise, wooden, arcing up to a low, vaulted ceiling. More flags hang here, in Dalish shades of russet and amber.
Oh. Of course. It’s an aravel. A replica of one, manifested by whatever magic flows through this place. Emmrich never even thought to ask if Taren was homesick too – how could he have possibly overlooked such a thing? – but the Lighthouse, it seems, did not overlook it.
The wall seals itself behind them. Considerate of it.
There must be a bed here somewhere. Yes, there: a low thing, attached to a wall, the kind that could fold away to make more room for someone for whom this space is their entire life. The blanket is faded and handwoven. Soft enough, Emmrich thinks, to press someone down into, and he leans in to kiss Taren again, guiding them carefully as he does until he senses them reach the edge of the bed. His heart is clattering madly against his ribs, and oh, where is he even to begin? Getting them on their back would be a good start – once they both have the rest of their clothes off, of course – and then lavishing every possible variety of gentle touch on every last inch of their skin –
In the middle of this intoxicating thought, Taren’s hand comes to rest on his chest. It’s a firm motion, one that says stop very clearly. Emmrich stops.
Taren pulls carefully away and takes Emmrich’s hands in both of theirs. And then, with their customary meticulous precision, they slide off one of Emmrich’s rings. They set it down on a low table beside the bed. Then they remove another. And another. And when the last one is gone, they take a loose grip of Emmrich’s wrist, and start on his bracelets.
Each motion is slow. Wondering, as if sliding Emmrich’s tithe bracelets over his hand is akin to stripping him naked. Every so often, they pause, eyes fixed on Emmrich’s steadily-more-bare arms, and – oh, his mouth is absolutely dry. He was supposed to be tending to them, and now they’re moving on to his right arm and how, how have they made this act so impossibly sensual? They haven’t even touched him anywhere very critical yet, and yet his entire being is aflame.
The last of his bracelets comes to rest beside the others. With one smooth motion, Taren pulls off Emmrich’s glove and gathers up both of his hands again.
‘I watched,’ they say, in a husky tone that makes everything inside Emmrich flip. ‘When you spoke to the dead. You were so gentle in the way you talked, and the way you moved your hands. Every time. Even though the people those bodies belonged to were gone.’ A shudder runs through their fingers. ‘And I realised… I wanted that.’
Something is aching in Emmrich’s chest. He wants – oh, he wants so much – he wants to somehow touch them enough to draw out the loneliness, whatever old pains have left this beautiful, beautiful person thinking that gentleness is something that was never meant for them. He draws Taren in close, bodies pressed tight together, and whispers against their neck: ‘And you shall have it.’
Taren makes a soft, sighing sound, and folds into Emmrich’s touch.
Emmrich lets his shirt fall away. He breaks the embrace to pull off his boots and socks – no need to do the same for Taren, since they go barefooted, in Dalish fashion – and then pulls back in. He’s almost painfully hard by now, and Taren must feel it, because they make an experimental cant of their hips. The friction is enough to pull a gasp from Emmrich’s mouth, and another when Taren repeats the motion. And it’s – it’s so good, this small contact searing through their clothes. But it also will not do at all. Again: he is meant to be tending to them.
His hands drop to Taren’s waist, finding the fastenings, pulling their trousers down. He finds Taren’s eyes before he continues, but they nod, and Emmrich lowers their underwear too. A tremor runs through Taren’s entire frame, and their hands tighten where they grip Emmrich’s shoulders.
And they are so very beautiful. Powerful legs made to leap and run, to dive through portals in a forest of wild magic. And Emmrich will never, never tire of admiring the muscles that the archery has given them. He kisses their collarbone, whispers, ‘Lie down, my dear,’ and a thrill courses through him when they obey.
Emmrich hastens out of the rest of his clothes and lowers himself down to join them, his legs slotting between theirs. Taren’s hands come up, inviting him, pulling him down to them, and for a little while, clear cognition is impossible. Taren is kissing his mouth and caressing his body – both of them bare as corpses ready for the embalming – Taren is on their back under Emmrich’s hands, opening themself to him –
Focus. Focus. Easier said than done, when little jolts of hungry pleasure are bursting through him whenever their hips align right, but Emmrich manages to pull away and sit upright, to smile down at them. ‘What would you have of me?’
He knows his mistake immediately. Taren’s whole body tenses, and their eyes flick away. They do not ask for healing after a battle; they do not so much as ask for a cup of tea unless it’s offered to them. How could they bring themself to ask for their own pleasure?
Emmrich takes one of Taren’s hands in his and interlaces their fingers. ‘In elvhen, dearest.’
Taren relaxes, steadily. Eyes closed, they manage, ‘Na amae ar salin mala dil.’
‘Might I request a translation?’
Without opening their eyes, Taren says, ‘You know I want your hands.’
Emmrich leans down and kisses their forehead, right in the centre of their vallaslin. And then, because he could not possibly deny Taren what they ask for, he slides his hands them down their torso, taking in every last curve. Then lower. He lingers at the soft skin of the inside of their thighs, nudges them a little further apart, and slides his hand down between their legs.
They are so warm, and they are absolutely dripping wet. Emmrich moves slowly, fingers stroking through folds of slick skin, thumb circling in just the right spot to make Taren let out a stuttering sound and arch their back. And he talks, watching their face the whole time: ‘You are exquisite, my dear, every inch of you. Beautiful beyond measure, beyond expression. I hope I can give you even a fraction of the pleasure you deserve – ’
Taren’s hips stutter, trying, Emmrich thinks, to press back against his hands, chasing a deeper touch. ‘Mana,’ they say, and Emmrich’s grasp of elvhen might be shameful, but in circumstances like this, please sounds much the same in any language.
He slides a finger inside, and, after a moment to appreciate the sound Taren makes in response, another. And oh, just look at them – splayed out before him, skin flushed, eyes tight shut and lips apart. The way they move when Emmrich presses in deeper, when he crooks his fingers or spreads them, when he rubs his thumb in purposeful circles. They’re so quiet, even now, but the sounds they do make send heat thrumming into the deepest part of him.
They’re so quiet – and yet Emmrich has heard how readily they’ll speak, if one only makes it clear they’re listening. Just mention linguistics, and Taren will talk all evening – has done, while Emmrich soaks in the sound of their voice. He has seen them come to life, like they’re coming alive now under his hands. He has seen the eagerness and passion they have for their subject, and felt that eagerness and passion turned upon him. He has shared dinner and conversation with them in the Memorial Gardens, deep into the night, learning every angle of their mind just as he is learning their body now.
They have been hurt so often – but they have let him touch them. They are so afraid to speak their wants – and they have said aloud that they want him. They have ached for him – they just begged for his fingers inside them – they are letting him in –
His entire being feels choked: lust and emotion in equal measure. Emmrich licks moisture back into his dry mouth and forces his tongue to remember the shape of words. To tell them, again, how beautiful they are. How much they deserve the things they want, to be treated with gentleness; how it is such a privilege to be able to do so. To urge them to let themself feel it, not to worry about him right now, this is all for them, and he fully intends to give them pleasure more than once. To let go – they are so beautiful – just let go –
And they do, clenching tight around his hand as they come. Emmrich watches every moment as Taren tenses like a bowstring pulled, then relaxes, liquid, into the sheets.
He watches. And so he sees it when Taren blinks furiously in a way that does not hide the sudden tears.
Emmrich pulls free and – with the slightly less sticky hand – reaches down to cup their face. They lean into the touch, breathing hard and ragged, shoulders shaking. ‘Oh, my darling,’ Emmrich breathes, and they let out a long exhale.
‘I’m all right,’ they whisper, half into his hand. ‘I promise. I just –’
They don’t complete the sentence, but there is no need. They do not need to say, it has been so long since I let myself have something good and kind. They do not need to say, I had a husband. I lost him. It has been eight years since then, and no one has touched me. They do not need to say anything at all.
Softly as he can, Emmrich brushes the tears away. He bends down to kiss their forehead, their hands, the tattoo stamped over their heart. They hold onto him, as their breathing settles. And then whey whisper, quiet but clear, ‘Emma salin.’
Oh.
Emmrich’s elvhen is no better than it was a few minutes ago – but this, he knows. He knows it from watching Taren emerge with Taash and Harding from the fighting pit in the Hilt. Emmrich had paused his conversation with that Spirit of Valour long enough to hear Isabela crow some celebratory, mistaken elvhen - and Taren corrected her instinctively, without a trace of embarrassment: ‘Enasalin means victory. Emma salin means, “I want you within me.”’
There is a distinct possibility that Emmrich’s brain held onto that information without him being aware of it. For… future reference.
He studies their face. Those dark brown eyes, looking up at him, perfectly clear. ‘You’re certain?’ he asks, because their cheeks are still damp. And they don’t look away from him as they nod.
Emmrich breathes in shakily, then kisses them slow, tongue twining deep. ‘Then you will have me, my dear.’
He’s softened a little after going for a time without being touched, but it’s a simple matter to wrap his hand around his own length and tug himself back to hardness. Businesslike though the motion is, he can feel Taren watching, and makes a mental note: they might like to watch him touch himself. But that is for another time.
For now – now, he kisses them once more, because it is impossible not to. Then he lines himself up and presses carefully, so carefully, inside. Not far, just the head, though that’s apparently enough to make both stutter briefly for air. Then further in, feeling them tight and warm around him, already trying to cant their hips up against his in a motion that makes him absolutely ache.
Slow and deliberate, withdrawing a little, sinking back in. It is the easiest thing in the world to be gentle – Emmrich’s never been one for the rougher kinds of intimacy, and while there is a time for fervoured abandon, it is not now. Not with them. They are so precious – so strong, though they should never have had to be strong – so good, oh, the clench of them around him, the rock of their body against his own. Words well up inside him and he lets them spill out, needing them to know how wonderful they feel, how much they deserve to feel just as good, how he’ll give them anything they want.
And what they want – what they want, impossibly, is him – sheathed inside them until he can go no further, rolling his hips into them and hearing them gasp in response. Listening to words that he does not understand, murmured below his own: ‘Ma lasa. Ma lasa.’ So, so hard inside them, while their hands grasp at him, pulling him in tight.
He’s – he’s so very close, but he wasn’t meant to – he wanted this to be for them – but they asked him for this, they wanted him inside them. Emmrich knows anatomy quite clearly, knows that the probability is against them being able to come from this alone. But when he manages to say, ‘Taren, darling, I –’ they must know what he is about to say, because they grip his hips with both hands and say, breathless, ‘Stay.’
Their expression is vulnerable, and wondering, and Emmrich shudders into their grasp, all rhythm of breathing or movement forgotten. They are here, warm all around him, wanting him, wanting.
His every muscle goes taut, his every nerve ending alight. He hears a gasping cry pull free from his own mouth, and then he’s coming inside them, their hands holding him steady and their eyes drawing him in and in and in.
Breath. Warmth. The fact of Taren’s hands on his skin. Emmrich fumbles to recollect the thoughts that have scattered like dust, piecing his consciousness back into order. His body is one long hum of contentment, sated and spent – but he still has a job to do.
He allows himself a moment to regain some form of control over his breathing, then pulls out and returns to kneeling between their legs. They are already close, it’s clear in their every breath and movement. And when Emmrich gets his hands back between their legs they press against him with blatant need.
‘That’s it, my dearest.’ They’re soaked and swollen, and becoming more with every stroke. ‘I have you. There – come for me now, darling –’
They tense, then jolt one final time against his hands. Their head tips back, and the movement is less one of rapture than one of comfort, like a long exhale. Their body slowly relaxes back into the blankets again, and Emmrich is reminded of water filling its cup, of bones being laid lovingly to their rightful place of rest.
He drinks them in, the sight of them – and that dark corner of his brain claws its way to the surface, howling, what have you done? But he has had no time to address that thought before Taren’s hands are running up his body, tugging him down to lie half beside, half on top of them, limbs tangling, hands entwining, their head fitting easily into the crook of his neck.
After a moment, he feels the press of Taren’s hand running through his hair. ‘Thank you,’ they say.
Startled, Emmrich lifts his head and blinks down at them. ‘You’ve nothing to thank me for.’
They shrug, as best they can lying down. ‘I’m not used to…’ They hesitate, a clear search for words happening behind their eyes. ‘To anyone caring so much about what I want. Not in a long time. So. Thank you.’
Throat dry and heart full, Emmrich places a hand over the centre of their chest. ‘It is my deepest pleasure.’
Taren smiles – their smile is so rare, and so wonderful – and twists their head around, lips grazing Emmrich’s forehead. ‘Next time,’ they murmur, ‘I promise this will be… a little more even.’
Next time.
A smile spreads over Emmrich’s face, and he moves in for another kiss, just the barest touch of their lips. Taren’s arms wind around him in response, warm and steady, and they nestle their face back into Emmrich’s neck. ‘Will you stay with me?’
Something lurches in Emmrich’s chest, an exquisite pain. They want him to stay. He feels bright, and ready to break, and – this means something. It must. It means something, that he is the first man in eight years whom Taren has wanted to touch them; that they pushed through every wall in their mind to ask for what they wanted from him; that they wanted comfort and looked for it in Emmrich. It must mean something.
He cannot bring himself to ask what that something is. He does not dare.
But he whispers, ‘Of course, my dear,’ and he folds easily into the curve of their body. He closes his eyes and lets the world shrink down to the limits of their skin. And they lie together in the quiet, twined as close as lovers ready for burial, waiting to be sealed in stone. Like the corpses in the Vault of the Beloved, clinging to each other in their ageless sleep. Falling tenderly together into dust.