give it up to the devil in me

by tuffgreg

Summary:

what do you do when you have to watch your partner get poisoned at family dinners? poison him at breakfast.

merrick "rook" de riva has a complicated relationship with the only family he's ever known; he asks emmrich to show him some other ways to try to live. cue: aphrodisiacs and some careful adventures in cooking.

written for the 2025 dragon age big bang, with art by my big bang partner inayashaa!

 

Things move quickly, after they bind Solas to the Fade. Well — after Merrick does.

Maybe it shouldn't. Johanna's skull sneers at him from time to time about the frequency with which Merrick appears in the Grand Necropolis, though Emmrich would like to imagine there is some measure of fond tolerance there, maybe just because there is very little of it in Emmrich's interactions with Viago when Emmrich travels to Treviso, and then Salle.

That, more than anything, is what makes Emmrich so uncertain about the pace of his relationship with Merrick. Even if he is considerably younger than Emmrich, he's a competent and capable Antivan Crow, a proven leader, a hero of Thedas.

Merrick is a clever young man who has demonstrated himself to be more than capable of making sound decisions. And yet:

"Surely you don't need so many things in Nevarra, Merrick." Viago's voice is as dry and sharp as it ever is, a needling undercurrent than seems present in, well, at least all of the interactions he's had with Emmrich.

They've done dinner with Viago and Teia — and occasionally the Dellamortes, or at least Lucanis and Caterina — on a somewhat regular basis over the last few months. Sometimes in Treviso, which Emmrich prefers, sometimes in Rialto, which seems pleasantly neutral. This time is fortunately only Viago and Teia, but unfortunately they're at the de Riva compound in Salle, where everyone is deferential to a fault to Viago and even Merrick, and all watch Emmrich with some measure of suspicion.

Merrick isn't the same in Salle. Merrick is deferential to Viago to a fault, something more obvious now than it was when the Veilguard had convened now that Viago is a more active force in the direction of Merrick's life once again.

"It's not that many trunks," Merrick retorts, as if it matters how much he, personally, wants to move to a home of his own. A home he shares with Emmrich, a little voice in the back of Emmrich's mind reminds him. Since he's never lived alone.

It isn't many trunks, though. Two, which seems to Emmrich a rather small life. Smaller than the Merrick he's come to know. "And there is ample room," he offers brightly, which nets him a warm smile from Teia and a calculating look from Viago, as if there's any other sort of look Viago ever wears. "It was a good opportunity for me to cull through a great deal of accumulated detritus, so Merrick doesn't have to make quite so many trips back and forth."

Teia's warm smile persists, but it takes on an eager edge that makes it clear Emmrich has said the wrong thing even before Viago turns to look at him, one eyebrow arched. "The Eluvians stil work, do they not? Your Dalish friend went to all that trouble, restoring one for Salle."

Something about the way Viago says Dalish friend sets Emmrich on edge. Merrick isn't, at least not in any way most Dalish clans would recognize, but Merrick and Bellara are close in part because they're elves. While Viago has always seemed perfectly appreciative of Bellara's enthusiasm and expertise, there's an undercurrent to his words — your friend, who's not like you, because remember, you're like me.

It's less about Bellara being Dalish — Viago, demonstrably, is as ambivalent about attitudes about elves as he is about other people's opinions on a great many things — and more about Merrick being a Crow first and foremost over anything else Merrick might learn to be from someone else.

"Of course," Merrick says breezily. Emmrich feels a hand on his thigh beneath the table, not Merrick's usual teasing wandering fingers but a firm, quick press: let me handle it. "But now you won't have to worry about me interrupting a meeting because I can't find a shirt."

A sweet smile, wide-eyed and sunny and deceptively empty-headed. Whether through professional experience or personal exposure, everyone at the table understands it to be a careful deflection — it's not a matter of calling Merrick on it, but a matter of whether or not everyone else will engage with the game.

"Considerate of you." Viago watches Emmrich again for a long moment, and then looks to his wine glass, and to Merrick's, untouched. "Was the vintage not to your satisfaction this evening?"

Moves, countermoves. Merrick holds his cheery smile; his long ears droop ever so slightly. Something flickers over his face for a moment — the beat where his mind spirals out into an endless series of things to say, more responses from Viago, branching paths of conversation that might lead to some disastrous end or perhaps the evening being cut mercifully short. "I was distracted, I guess," he says finally. "Did you want another glass?"

"Keep it for dessert." A casual wave of Viago's hand sends a servant, or maybe a fledging, skittering towards the kitchen to retrieve whatever is in store for the evening. "Lucanis sent the recipe along."

Emmrich is old enough that his stomach shouldn't drop the way it does. This is, on its face, absurd: he is too old for this game, Merrick is too accomplished to have to indulge this. Lucanis should know better — Lucanis has the authority amongst the Crows now to know better, as far as Emmrich is aware, whether Lucanis wants to weild it or not.

And yet, here they are: Emmrich on tenterhooks, Merrick stiff with discomfiting tension, as if they're trapped in their seats by the force of Viago's stern disapproval.

Merrick's hand slides higher, searching, and Emmrich drops a hand surreptitiously — well, to anyone but the Crows he's dining with — to his lap to rest his hand on top of Merrick's reassuringly.

The hazelnut torte looks exquisite, of course, and explains the wine, a sweet red that Merrick would never choose on his own and hasn't touched since he sat down.

"I will have to visit you soon, my dear," Teia says brightly, as their dinner attendant serves up rich slices for each of them. "Be sure to learn where all the good bakeries are first, Merrick, so you can show me around."

She doesn't eat. Neither does Viago. Emmrich reaches for his fork, and Merrick squeezes his thigh before picking up his own. "Yeah, of course. There's one near some shops I think you'd like." He carves off a small piece of cake, regarding it for a long moment. "That was nice of Lucanis, to send the recipe."

Merrick lets out a pleased little sigh at the first bite of torte, and Emmrich files it away with the always-growing catalogue of things he loves about him. Merrick does love indulgences; this is the sort of thing Emmrich would bring home for them after a day of classes to enjoy together.

But it's not the cake that's the issue. No, with the context of what information Emmrich has prised from Merrick about his childhood, that would have been a little too hostile and on the nose, even for Viago. It's the wine, which Merrick also takes a careful sip of, eyes fixed on Viago, whose eyes are fixed on Merrick in return.

It's just Merrick's, of course, undoubtedly something coating the interior of the fine gilded cup with its long graceful stem. He licks his lips, and it feels strangely voyeuristic as they all watch him take another sip.

"Your flat," Viago says, as if he hasn't made a deliberate spectacle of Merrick at the dinner table. "It's in the Necropolis?"

There's a hint of distaste in his voice, and Merrick clears his throat ever so slightly: don't. "It's not a long trip into the city. There's a training hall. If you came to visit, you could see all of Vorgoth's landscapes…"

Merrick drinks, as the conversation continues. Merrick is not much of a drinker when left to his own devices — the occasional beer when Davrin offers them, sometimes a glass of some inventive Dock Town cocktail when they visit Minrathous. But he makes his way diligently through the glass of wine, which isn't refilled, perhaps the small mercy Viago intends to afford him.

Whatever's in Viago's little concoction seems to hit Merrick waves. Halfway through, Merrick's ears droop and his eyes close, his brow furrowed. His voice is barely a whisper when he adds, "That's mean." He sighs, and takes another sip. "This one's hard."

The conversation continues on, increasingly surreal. Emmrich does his best to chime in when Merrick looks towards him, pupils slowly widening, cheeks growing flushed. Eventually Merrick falters, trying to talk through his intent to join the next Winter Games — his breathing has picked up as his face goes pink from the round apples of his cheeks to the delicate tips of his ears.

There's an uncomfortable distance in Merrick's eyes as if he's not entirely there, but he tightens his grip on the glass and drinks again, watching Viago all the while. "All… it's, um…"

"That took longer than expected," Teia says idly, bored in a way that raises Emmrich's hackles. She takes the last bite of her torte, apparently satisfied by Merrick's effort regardless of what the outcome is.

Viago lets out a noncommital noise, and pushes his mostly-uneaten torte towards her before she asks. "I was judicious with the dosage."

Emmrich goes to protest, and feels Merrick's fingers dig even harder into his thigh in return, trembling ever so slightly.

Merrick lets out a shaky breath and finally pushes the empty wine glass away. "All cap," he says finally, voice strained like it's everything he can do to get the words out. "No cattle. Fereldan madcap." He huffs out a strained laugh. "The torte would have masked it better."

"Really, Viago." Emmrich's not sure what it is that finally sets him off. Merrick's resignation, the discomfiting vulnerability of his dreamy expression, the absurdity of this exercise.

Whatever it is, the look that nets Emmrich in return from Viago and Teia is a sharp enough rebuke to nearly have Emmrich recoiling in his seat. He's not sure he's ever felt his outsider status as he does in this moment — not sure, somehow, that he's ever felt more Nevarran than at a table full of Crows, seated across from two commanders of the closest thing Antiva has to a standing army.

He is Nevarran, of course, but more than that in this moment, he is Merrick's. Emmrich lifts his hand to brush Merrick's hair from his sweat-damp cheek and flinches at the same time Merrick does. "Dearest —"

"You have to — there's not —" Merrick drops his hand to Emmrich's thigh again, clutching tight enough that there will be bruises there, indents of his fingers, the kind of thing that might seem intimate to find on a lover's thigh if only either of them were the sort to enjoy leaving marks. He shoves his other hand through his hair, clutching at it, and barks at a bewildered laugh. "It's a trick question."

"I don't ask those," Viago says evenly, nonplussed. He takes a pointed sip of his wine. "I am no philosopher, Merrick." More pointed still, like a dagger digging in beneath Emmrich's rib. "There is an answer."

Emmrich's not sure he's ever seen Merrick look as embarrased as he does when he glances towards Emmrich, eyes wide and wet, mouth a grim line.

Fereldan Madcap isn't deadly. It bewilders the senses. In high enough doses, doses more potent even than what Emmrich imagines must have lined the glass, it can cause memory loss. It's not uncommon in Nevarra, for those who feel plagued by the city's ceaseless reverence for and remembrance of the dead but don't have the funds to pick their life up and leave. Time will cure it, as often will a sudden shock. A slap, a jarring blow in the heat of battle.

Magic.

Emmrich minds himself in Antiva, as a courtesy those wary of his necromancy. Manfred does not come with them when they visit. He keeps his casting minimal when in the city, and does not whisper to corpses without an invitation from the living.

This feels like a dare. There is a answer, and some part of Emmrich is convinced it's deference, the same deference Merrick displays to the closest thing to parents he has ever known. A willingness to stay here in Antiva for hours on end and let Merrick suffer until the poison runs its course. The sort of deference Emmrich imagines they expect a visiting Nevarran scholar to offer two Talons in their home country, a parody of the quiet respect Merrick offers him when he accompanies Emmrich to his rituals in the gardens.

Emmrich turns more fully in his seat, pushing it back so he can twist enough to cradle Merrick's soft jaw in his hands. Emmrich strokes his thumbs over the branching lines of Mythal's vallaslin across his cheeks, watching the way the dim green glow around his hands is reflected in Merrick's unshed tears.

Merrick seems to come to himself immediately, or more to himself, at least. He tenses under Emmrich's hands but doesn't pull away; it's easy enough to tell that he's uncomfortable, though, and Emmrich turns back to his plate, folding his hands in his lap.

Teia and Viago share a look. Teia shrugs, and Viago scoffs. He turns to say something to Merrick, and before he can help himself, Emmrich cuts across. "Unfortunately something seems to have spoiled the torte. Too many liberties taken with a Nevarran classic, perhaps."

"Emmrich," Merrick whispers, and this time it's Emmrich who reaches to press a hand to the soft expanse of Merrick's thigh.

A brief moment of reassurance, and Emmrich rises from the table. "I'll see to your trunks while the three of you finish your business, my love."

Merrick looks up at him, watching him for a long moment, eyes a stormy blue and murky brown and lacking their usual warmth. Eventually he reaches for Emmrich's hand again and presses a tender kiss to one of his rings. "Thank you," he murmurs, voice raspy. "I'll meet you at the Eluvian after dinner."

Emmrich holds his hand, and bends to kiss him, the sort of deep and courteous dip he might extend to Viago's father if they were forced to meet again, the way the Veilguard did not long ago. To Viago and Teia, he nods his head. "My sincere thanks for your hospitality this evening. A shame about dessert."

He hears Viago call for water for the table as he leaves, and Merrick's faint sigh when Viago adds, "Is it the etiquette of all Nevarrans to be so wasteful?" before the clink of a fork on a plate chases Emmrich out of the hall.

***

"You did good tonight."

Merrick is looking up at him from the enchanted claw-foot bath, one of the luxuries Emmrich is less embarrassed than he should be about using his Mourn Watch privileges to acquire. Both of them fit, but Merrick is the only one in it at the moment, his thick black curls a somewhat ridiculous wet mop around his face from where Emmrich had helped him wash it. Having his hair plastered so close to his head makes Merrick's ears look comically long, but something about the roundness of his face brings it back around to sweet.

He's in the bath alone, at Emmrich's insistence. A warm soak to wash the lingering sensation of whatever nonsense Viago laced his drink with away, paired with warm tea brewed by a fussy, worried Manfred before Emmrich had asked him to unpack Merrick's things.

Emmrich arches an eyebrow, watching Merrick from where he's perched on the edge of the tub. "I don't think Viago would agree."

Normally Emmrich would expect some kind of fawning quip in response. Tonight, Merrick just watches him, expression thoughtful. Finally, he says, "I think you did good tonight."

Which is the more important matter, in Emmrich's personal opinion. He reaches out to push aside a stray curl from where it's crept close to Merrick's mouth, and brushes his thumb over Merrick's full bottom lip. "You've quite the gift for poisons."

Merrick preens a little, as expected, then sinks a bit deeper into the water. "I've eaten a lot of dinners with Viago."

Ample practice, his tone implies. Is it paternalistic, the way Emmrich seethes at the prospect? Or protective? That's the trick, he thinks. Viago's way of holding a mirror up to their relationship. Are we so different?

Emmrich watches Merrick slump down. "Should I expect this, moving forward?"

All he gets in return is a shrug. Not entirely unusual: Merrick does this sometimes, closes off when he's not sure what to make of his own feelings. In all their time together, even at the Lighthouse, Emmrich learned it's best to give him space to decide whether or not he needs help.

He reaches out again, and Merrick sits up just enough that Emmrich feels comfortable taking it as permission to brush his fingers along the line of one of Merrick's ears. Merrick squirms and rolls his eyes good-naturedly. The knot of tension in Emmrich's gut loosens, at least slightly.

"I'll find your pajamas," Emmrich says, watching as even Merrick's ears start to disappear beneath the water as Merrick sinks back beneath it again. "And fix you some more tea."

When Emmrich returns, Merrick is still in the bath, arms folded on the edge of the tub with his chin propped on them. He still doesn't seem particularly inclined to chat, just looks up at Emmrich through his lashes and tries to hide his smile as Emmrich lets out a fond sigh.

Merrick is not often inclined to let himself be tended to the way Emmrich so often feels inclined to do, but this nightly routine is one of the rare indulgences Merrick affords him on a regular basis. Usually it involves a shared bath, but not always. It does always involve Emmrich bundling Merrick in a thick towel, warmed with magic, once he climbs out, and Emmrich taking care of Merrick's hair as Merrick moves through the rest of his own routine.

Merrick is fastidious with his grooming, even if only in the sense that he's cultivated a particular aesthetic for the sorts of jobs he takes as a Crow — his sweet face, the mop of boyish curls tumbling to his chin, all maintained by Merrick with as little effort as he can get by with to hold on to his youthful charm which, as an elf, is very little. He takes more diplomatic contracts these days, the sort that don't involve being the sort of pretty face certain types of marks would want to pick up at a tavern, but old habits hold fast.

Most of them came from Illario Dellamorte, before their ended engagement. When everything from Merrick's last purchase had run out he'd been bereft for days, reminded as much of the familial duty he now found himself derelict in — political betrothal — as he was of Illario's betrayal.

Now most of it is a hodgepodge of Nevarran goods and gifts from friends: a sweet-smelling salve for his skin from a Veil Jumper apothecary Bellara is close to, an oil for his hair from a little shop in the neighborhood Emmrich was born in. It's too soon to discuss an engagement of their own, but they discussed the ritual of it all as Merrick worked through some of his feelings about the arrangement Viago and Caterina had made and, separately, his feelings about marriage at all.

It helps, Emmrich has found, to have their own rituals, something built together from only what they enjoy. The repetitiveness of it seems to give Merrick more space to think, occupying his hands through muscle memory alone. "He'll do it again," Merrick says, working some floral concoction delivered from Rivain over his neck and chest.

He uses this one most frequently when he's worried Emmrich's upset, Emmrich has noticed, as if the floral scent will soothe Emmrich's poor spirits. Emmrich works a wide-toothed comb gently through Merrick's hair and tries not to think of how well the ploy works. "You can't expect me not to help you," he say gently. "Talon or no, there is only so much respect I can extend."

"I know." Merrick catches his eye in the mirror. "He wouldn't kill me."

Emmrich knows he is desperately, foolishly in love with Merrick, because if he weren't, he would feel a normal sort of alarm at even having to have this conversation at all. But their circumstances have never been normal, and Emmrich wonders, not for the first time, how much different Merrick's life could have been had his parents given him up to anyone other than a Crow willing to barter for safe passage with an infant's life.

Different enough that they never would have met, certainly. The whisper in the back of his mind takes on an Antivan lilt.

Emmrich pushes the thought from his mind and kisses the top of Merrick's head. "I trust you," he says finally, which is true, and as much compromise as he can offer. Trust in Merrick, and appropriate deference on Crow matters as a result.

"It was sweet." Merrick's voice is soft, and a little shy without the cloying coyness he usually employs to get what he wants. "What you did. It's… you know."

He pauses and looks away from Emmrich in the mirror, smoothing lotion over the shroud's kiss blossoms creeping along the scars beneath his pectorals — recent additions to the bare vines he'd had over the scars when Emmrich had first met him. "A lot of dinners. Crows can't interfere."

Don't interfere, Emmrich wants to correct, but he thinks better of it, and the abject horror that leaps to his throat at the idea quickly washes the instinctive response from his mouth. "Dearest."

Hastily, Merrick continues. "I learned a lot." A beat. "He's an expert."

He wouldn't kill me.

Another beat. "He never made me go to dinner."

The risk was worth the reward, Merrick's words imply.

This, too, is something Emmrich has come to know deeply about Merrick. He is, more than anyone else in his life, convinced of the good fortune of his own circumstances. He sees his path as parallel to Emmrich's, not the disheartening divergence that Emmrich himself holds it to be.

Two children who lost their families, taken in and raised by communities that gave them the knowledge and skills to achieve unimaginable heights.

He is as grateful to the Crows as Emmrich is to the Mourn Watch. He knows exactly who he is to the Crows, too, no veil of naivete fogging his vision: a finely-honed weapon disguised by a doe-eyed honey trap, and he embraces it out of both sincere enthusiasm and deeply-felt gratitude. It makes Emmrich wonder, sometimes, if perhaps he is the one with the more starry-eyed view of his own relationship to his order.

"I was impressed by your critique," Emmrich says finally. He combs through the last of Merrick's damp curls, and reaches for the oil. "Madcap is too earthy for a wine like that."

Merrick snorts and tips his head back into Emmrich's hands. "That's how I knew he was just being a dick about it."

Emmrich catches his eyes in mirror again and arches an eyebrow. "And not the cake?"

"Teia loves stuff like that," Merrick says, by way of explanation.

"Is that —" Emmrich pauses. They talk about Merrick's experiences as a Crow in fits and bursts; more often than not, Merrick reveals off-putting truths in casual conversation with little awareness of what it sounds like to anyone else. Experiencing his abstract revelations in person makes it easier to pick through the layers of his relationship to the Crows and Viago. "And I must admit, my dear, that I am rather surprised by my own curiosity here. Is that… typically the nature of it?"

"What do you mean?"

"In things you don't eat," Emmrich clarifies, reluctant to spell it out in any more detail. "During this… exercise."

"Ah." Merrick's brow furrows as he mulls it over. He sets aside the jar of lotion, working the excess into his hands. "I don't know." More hesitantly, he adds, "I ate what was at the table."

It's hard for Emmrich to work through whether he thinks that's better or worse. Poisoning Merrick's slice of torte had seemed at first too cruel for Viago to go to the trouble of, but the reality may be more straightforward, and somehow more unfeeling.

As with many other things with Merrick, it was more important to for him to behave than have opinions to ensure continued access to a desperately-needed necessity. Merrick wouldn't have been in any position to turn down food, poison or no. Maybe he always hated it; maybe what he thought about it never registered at all.

Teia would want the torte, and because Merrick would drink when pressed regardless of his interest in it, it would certainly be simpler to poison a single glass of wine.

Emmrich thinks back on all the things they've enjoyed together, and Merrick's keen enthusiasm and wide smiles any time Emmrich waves at him to pick out a few days' worth of pastries on a trip to the city.

He bends in to rest his chin atop Merrick's head for a moment. "Did you like the torte?"

Merrick opens his mouth, then closes it again, furrowing his brow for a moment. He leans back into Emmrich. "It's your favorite?"

"My mother made it, at Wintersend." A roundabout yes. Emmrich watches Merrick in the mirror, seeing the fleeting flicker of annoyance over his features that gives way to a hint of guilt, a rarity for Merrick. "I would have made it for you, then." Merrick tenses, and Emmrich kisses the crown of his head. "I still will, of course, if you enjoyed it."

Merrick relaxes immediately, seemingly soothed. "It's rich." He meets Emmrich's eyes in the mirror, reaching for another jar. "I liked it."

"Mother will be thrilled." Emmrich works his fingers through Merrick's curls, heart swelling at how pleased Merrick looks at the prospect of having some new thing to share on their next visit to the Gardens. "A shame we didn't get to enjoy it under better circumstances, but Wintersend will be here soon enough."

***

The conversation is laid to rest there, at least for a few days. Emmrich lets himself try to forget, and Viago sends word that Salle (read: Talon) business will delay their next few dinners. Emmrich tries not to feel too pleased about the glimmer of relief on Merrick's face when the missive arrives.

Lucanis writes too, an expectedly effusive apology for interfering in Fifth business, and Emmrich also tries not to feel too pleased about the way Merrick regards it — not with immediate deference for a Talon humbling himself, but annoyance over a friend's complicity in an unpleasant exchange. More surprising still, Merrick leaves the response in Emmrich's hands.

"You're his friend too," Merrick says. "It's not Fifth business." He tips his head up expectantly, and Emmrich bends to kiss the corner of his mouth, drawn inexorably in by Merrick's tender smile. "It's our business."

They have their own dinners, a new ritual to incorporate now that Merrick has settled more permanently in their shared home, and Merrick indulges Emmrich in something new, long conversations about what he likes and doesn't like and all the nuances of flavor and texture Merrick is particularly sensitive to — the skill that makes him so adept at potions, turned instead towards interrogating the flavor profile of a particularly complex soup.

The nightly rituals they'd begun to carve out in the Lighthouse continue, and Emmrich luxuriates in waking up and falling asleep next to Merrick with no earthshatteringly urgent business looming over their days.

It's so thrillingly normal to get to enjoy nights like this, with Merrick stretched out across the bed, head pillowed in Emmrich’s lap as he pages through a recent edition of The Randy Dowager Quarterly and Emmrich leafs through one of the other Necromantic orders' most recent treatise on their particular training of corpse whisperers.

“Have you ever tried an aphrodisiac?”

It takes a moment for the question to register. When Emmrich glances down at him, Merrick’s expression is strangely pensive, brow furrowed thoughtfully as he stares intently at a particular passage in the Dowager. There's something in his face that prompts Emmrich to set his own paper aside.

Emmrich brushes Merrick’s hair back from his forehead, fingers skirting along the sensitive line of Merrick’s long ear. It nets Emmrich a shiver in return, expected but always a delight. “Are you curious how it compares to your reading, my darling?”

“Maybe a little.” Merrick’s ear twitches just a little under Emmrich’s light touch, and he wrinkles his nose just slightly before staring up at Emmrich instead. “A real dramatic Orlesian orgy, with orichalcum wine and everything.” He turns his attention back to the Quarterly, and turns the page with a pensive hum. “Feel like the lye stink would ruin the mood, honestly.”

Emmrich snorts, and sets his own book aside; Merrick shifts, twisting on the bed to sit up and tuck himself against Emmrich’s side instead so they can both examine the Quarterly together instead.

“I suppose it depends on how much wine the narrative thinks is required to facilitate an Orlesian orgy,” Emmrich replies dryly. He slips his arm behind Merrick, sliding a hand up through his curls to scratch idly at the back of his head. “But I’m inclined to agree with you.”

He’s rewarded for his good-natured agreement with a kiss on the cheek before Merrick drops his head to Emmrich’s shoulder, and Emmrich drops his hand to trace his fingers idly along Merrick’s side instead. “Bronto horn was more the passing fancy when I was younger, though it was almost all certainly counterfeit.”

“And how would you know that?” There’s a keen, familiar interest in Merrick’s voice, the sort that lights up his face over dinner when the Necropolis kitchen offers up some particularly complex Nevarran fare for him to investigate, and Emmrich feels Merrick go tense with anticipation against Emmrich’s side. “Did you try some, with your Orlesian art collector?”

It’s hard to tell what the answer should be, sometimes. Merrick isn’t particularly jealous – sometimes he seems to prefer the illusion that Emmrich has done something with another partner, even if he hasn’t. For all the has largely escaped his obligation to be some stranger’s blushing young ingénue as a Crow, he does still seem to enjoy being Emmrich’s.

He can see another throughline to this question, though – a particular type of professional curiosity, the practical interest of a poisoner’s clever protege. A question of execution, which merits an honest answer.

“My interests were elsewhere, at the time,” Emmrich says finally, an easy way to give Merrick space to maintain whatever illusions he wants about Emmrich’s much longer life. “There are more potent ingredients, as I’m sure you’re aware, most of which Templars have a keen interest in keeping far away from mages.”

“Even in Nevarra?” Merrick tips his head just slightly, pressing a kiss to the line of Emmrich’s jaw.

Emmrich kisses his temple. “Particularly in Nevarra, at times, even amongst necromancers given our proximity to spirits. Desire demons would undoubtedly be quite keen on a young mage who miscalculated a potion ingredient.”

Merrick makes an idle noise of acknowledgement and turns a page. There seem to be an awful lot of limbs at play in this story, and Emmrich wonders if the author hasn’t perhaps misplaced a hand somewhere. “Viago made some for Teia once. She got kind of offended, they fought for like a week.”

Emmrich opts not to have an opinion on that — he's not anxious to allow their conversation from the other day to surge forth again as a full blown argument, not when they've made such progress carving out the foundation of a life beyond the Crows here, and he would prefer not to be discussing Viago at all.

He reaches over to push Merrick’s thumb aside on the page, more to redirect Merrick’s attention than because he’s obscuring anything Emmrich wants to read. “How many people are meant to be at this party again?”

“Thirteen.” Merrick’s response is immediate, and of course the question is not quite enough to deter him. “They’re all pretty gross personally, but at least they’re easy to spot if you’re looking for them.”

As is usually the case in these situations, Emmrich is not entirely prepared to unpack the implications of the conversation – not Viago and Teia, not whatever gauntlet of poison recognition Viago decided to put Merrick through with his leftover concoctions, not what sorts of marks Merrick might have had who might have thought his drink a promising target. But as is also usually the case, if Merrick wants something, it’s better to let him walk himself there.

He settles his hand at Merrick’s hip, and kisses the top of his head.

“There was this other one,” Merrick continues finally, fingers trailing idly along the edges of the Quarterly’s pages as he talks himself through whatever path he’s trying to forge out of this conversation. “It’s not – I mean, it’s an influencer. So, you know. It’s not for sex.”

He shifts a little at Emmrich’s side, thumbing at the bits of the Quarterly he has left. “It’s called pillow talk. Makes you feel… well.” Emmrich can hear the little smile in Merrick’s voice. “You get pretty chatty, afterwards.”

So does Merrick, but the point is well taken. “An apt description,” Emmrich says blandly, as much courtesy as he cares to extend in the circumstances. “Could you turn back a page, perhaps?”

Merrick does, and forges onward anyway in spite of Emmrich’s attempt to redirect him again, a shy distance creeping into his voice. “I tried some once.”

He waits for a question Emmrich probably shouldn’t want to ask.

There are other ways to shape Merrick's interest – he could slip his fingers beneath the soft, worn fabric of the sleeveless shirt Merrick has worn to bed, or toy with the tie of his silken pajama shorts. A soft kiss to his jaw, an encouraging whispered my beloved Merrick, and Emmrich would buy himself at least a day or two to find some other way to more firmly lead them away from this particular conversation.

If he were a better man – less susceptible by the well-laid trap of Merrick's wide eyes or less aroused by the thrill of a pretty Antivan Crow’s keen interest in him or, truthfully, less desperately in love with this sharp, clever, determined young man – Emmrich would fetch them some tea, and dim the lanterns, and put them both to bed.

Emmrich thumbs at the waist of Merrick's silken pajama shorts, still feigning interest in the Quarterly. “Is that so?”

Merrick's whole body relaxes into him, freed from the fraught tension of waiting for Emmrich’s tacit approval. “Just a little,” he hums, skirting his fingers over Emmrich’s forearm as Emmrich toys with the tie of his shorts. “Not like I had a lot of chances to break into Viago's case, so go big or go home, right?”

He stretches his legs out a little beneath the sheets. “He kept the salves they gave me for –” Merrick gestures idly at his chest, and the scars there. “-- in there too, so I figured I’d just say I was looking for that if I got caught.”

More still to unpack, though given Viago’s paranoia, being so overcautious about something Merrick would be using regularly on himself is at least somewhat less surprising.

Emmrich reaches out to gently touch Merrick’s wrist with the hand not toying with his shorts, cradling Merrick against his side, skirting his fingers up Merrick’s forearm just a little before he turns the page. “You do take a particular delight in being irresponsibly curious,” he says fondly, enjoying the way Merrick’s breathing picks up ever so slightly. “You seem to have survived, at least.”

A beat, and Emmrich tilts his head to press another kiss to the top of Merrick’s mop of soft curls. “And how did you find the experience?”

“If I wasn’t irresponsibly curious, what would we even talk about?” Fair enough: his curiosity is a not insignificant part of his charm. Merrick edges closer still, pressing his thigh against Emmrich’s and turning another page in his quarterly, as if he’s still reading it. His breath hitches as Emmrich’s hand dips beneath his waistband. “It was, you know.” Merrick swallows. “Interesting.”

“Is that all?” Emmrich knows it’s condescending, but he’s rewarded by Merrick’s legs parting as fingers skirt lower still. “Come now, dearest, it sounds as if it was far more memorable than that.”

Emmrich's not entirely sure it's even a matter of the concoction itself. It's easy to imagine Merrick after years, maybe even a decade of surreptitious poisonings and contracts requiring he tolerate the grasping hands of strangers, seizing a rare opportunity to make a decision about his own body — however reckless, like the impulsiveness that left him with his ill-gotten vallaslin.

They share the instinct, and Emmrich knows that Merrick's willingness to follow through is part of what makes him so desperately attractive. Had he the opportunity, Merrick would have thrown himself wholeheartedly into lichdom at the first invitation. Emmrich doesn't regret that he didn't choose it for himself, but Merrick's joyous, even sometimes selfish enthusiasm has afforded Emmrich the confidence to live a less overcautious life.

That, he thinks, is what has Merrick's cheeks so flushed: the memory of his own defiance, the squirming delight of being clever enough to survive a reckless decision.

"I didn't even lock my door," Merrick breathes, the sort of admission that would seem comical from anyone else; living in the Lighthouse with two Crows made it clear a locked door was as much of an invitation as an open one.

Emmrich can't slip his hand fully between Merrick's thighs like this, not the way he wants to, but Merrick squirms even under the idle tracing of Emmrich's fingers over the fold of his stomach at his hips. "Bold of you," he murmurs.

Merrick seems to be working something out in his head as Emmrich processes it with him, and Emmrich lets him — it's hardly as if there's any rush to get Merrick naked beneath him, not the way they would have been scrambling for a spare moment together months ago.

Not anymore, when Merrick has chosen to make his home here in Nevarra, with Emmrich.

Merrick twists a little at Emmrich's side — curled in but not closed off. He presses his thighs together, sliding a hand across Emmrich's stomach to toy with the buttons of Emmrich's pajama top. "It tasted awful." Emmrich presses another kiss to the top of his head to stifle a snort of amusement. "I didn't — it was…"

A strangely wistful sigh. "I could barely even think." Merrick presses his face into the curve of Emmrich's shoulder. "Like the gingerwort truffle tea."

It's an informative admission. Emmrich had miscalculated with the batch he'd gifted Davrin for his visit to Arlathan with Merrick, and while Emmrich's memories of the evening spent tending to Merrick afterwards are fond to say the least, he hadn't really considered it in the context Merrick is offering now: his keen interest in being freed from the burden of everyone else's expectations.

Loose-limbed and eager, secrets spilling freely from his mouth. Asking for the opportunity to not be responsible for himself, under more pleasant circumstances than the ones where his decisions are usually removed from him.

Emmrich glances at the quarterly, and sets it aside. Merrick takes it as an invitation — and it isn't not an invitation — to climb into Emmrich's lap, straddling his thighs with a glimmer of mischief in his mismatched eyes.

"You liked the gingerwort tea," Merrick says, a little conspiratorially like he's needled some well-sequestered knowledge from Emmrich.

"I did," Emmrich admits, dropping his hands to Merrick's plush hips. "You handled it well, all things considered."

Merrick's expression sharpens a little as his eyes search his face for the invitation Emmrich tries to extend there, Emmrich's expression not wheedling but not entirely disinterested. "I did," he agrees, a little more carefully now. "I knew it wouldn't kill me."

I'm smart enough to know. I know you're smart enough to know too.

Maybe not the best example, given Emmrich's miscalculation with the tea, but: he's brewed many batches for Davrin and Assan since with no issues at all.

He reaches up to trail his fingers along Merrick's ear again, more deliberately this time, and his other hand slips down from his hip to stroke Merrick's thigh as Merrick squirms in his lap. Emmrich waits, and eventually his idle petting is rewarded.

"You wouldn't kill me," Merrick whispers, halfway to the question he wants to ask. He glances askance at the quarterly himself, not quite meeting Emmrich's eyes when he looks up again.

Emmrich touches a finger to his chin and tips it up just slightly in encouragement. "Certainly not, dearest."

Merrick, to his credit, meets Emmrich's gaze and holds it. "You know potions."

"I do."

A beat, and emboldened by Emmrich's implicit permission, Merrick settles into what he knows best — his eyes go soft and wide, mouth just barely slack, head tilted ever so slightly in a subtle invitation to kiss him. Emmrich's learned not to be offended or worried by the change: Merrick is sincere with him in all the ways that matter, and the least Emmrich can afford him is this shield, the safe distance between what he's expected to endure and what he wants to explore for himself.

"You could, if you wanted," Merrick breathes with a little flutter of his lashes. Emmrich struggles against the urge to pull him closer. "You'd do such a good job. I think you'd enjoy it."

Emmrich gives in to the urge this time, rests both hands on Merrick's hips and doesn't bother stifling a pleased sigh as he drags Merrick fully into his lap. He's half-hard already; Merrick rolls his hips in response, and Emmrich leans in to accept the invitation of Merrick's lovely mouth. He already knows that he would, whatever that says about him. "Would you?"

Something flickers over Merrick's features — the Merrick underneath it all, carving himself out from the inside of a version of himself he had no input on. The version of Merrick learning to lean into those thrilling, gratifying flashes of his own selfishness. A hint of uncertainty clouds his features, as if he's still working out if this is the game he likes, or the game he thinks Emmrich likes, until Emmrich leans in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah." A hint of eager anticipation creeps into Merrick's voice, and Merrick kisses Emmrich again. "'cause it's with you."

**

They don't discuss it. They can't discuss it, not really: there are people who approach these sorts of things with more discipline and more caution, including Emmrich with a past partner or two, but it became evident very early on in Emmrich's developing relationship with Merrick that the more structure imposed between them, the less Merrick would enjoy himself.

He is, by design, as good at following instructions as he is ignoring his own limits, largely because his instructions typically involve not having many limits at all.

Emmrich could ask what Merrick wants — he would say what Emmrich wants. He could ask when — he would say on Emmrich's schedule. He could ask what Merrick doesn't want — he would demure. It was strange to grapple with at first, given that at first blush deferring to authority did not seem to be Merrick's natural instinct, but on seeing Merrick in Antiva, the dynamic became more evident: it is, in part, how Merrick shows he cares. To trust, and to defer, with great enthusiasm.

Emmrich knows he's had the luxury of a long life with the privilege of a profound autonomy, but did not fully grasp how significant that privilege might be until Merrick. These days the benefit of his experience relative to Merrick's twenty odd years is perspective, and even if Merrick has never articulated as much himself, Emmrich's perspective has made learning through observation easier that the easiest decision to start Merrick with when it comes to making himself vulnerable is a simple one.

He didn't make me go to dinner.

While Emmrich doesn't care to dwell on that conversation or the circumstances that prompted it, it is a helpful framework. A simple decision, orchestrated by someone who has stripped all of the complexity away before presenting it to Merrick: to go to dinner, or not. Or not could be anything. That's a decision for later, when dinner or not is answered.

And so they don't discuss it, and Emmrich puts the weight of his Senior Watcher status into facilitating the simple decision.

***

Emmrich is established enough in the Mourn Watch that he doesn't get many questions about his borderline-illicit purchases.

The hardest part — beyond asking Johanna if she has any thoughts about the alchemical interactions between madcap and black lichen, which she answers after at least a minute of raucous cackling only because Emmrich was bold enough to ask for her help at all — is making sure that he doesn't wake Merrick up in the morning when he slips out of bed in the early hours, delivering a thrilled Manfred to Myrna.

"I cannot thank you enough," Emmrich sighs, fussing over Manfred and making sure he's got all his coursework and books one last time as Myrna watches on with fond amusement.

She lets out a dry laugh in return. "He's proven himself to be an excellent student. It's hardly any trouble at all." And then, with a teasing edge that's rare for her, she adds, "Every parent deserves a bit of privacy from time to time."

Merrick often makes the same joke — our spell-slinging skeleton son — but it always feels more real from someone else. From Merrick it's sweet, our son. A tender reminder of his feelings for Emmrich and his fondness for Manfred.

From others, it's a reflection of how they look to everyone else: like a family. Emmrich feels his face heat up just slightly. "Rook and I are certainly in your debt," he says lightly. Merrick is for family; Rook is for the world. "We'll collect you tomorrow, Manfred. Do remember to work on your primer."

He kisses the top of Manfred's skull, and gets a delighted hiss in return. "Tomorrow," he offers, by way of goodbye.

"An impressive number of syllables," Myrna says brightly as she draws him away. "Tomorrow, Emmrich."

The rest of the preparation is easier without Manfred trying to offer his assistance in the little kitchen of Emmrich and Merrick's shared flat. They all cook together often; no matter how many days pass them by, Merrick seems charmed by the novelty of it every time, of choosing what he wants to eat, of purchasing ingredients together or examining what they get delivered from the Necropolis kitchens, of getting to portion out his own plate.

Even before their unpleasant dinner with Viago, it was rare for Emmrich to prepare meals for Merrick without Merrick's invovlement just to relish in more time together, but it's what Emmrich does this morning in hopes of delivering a rare genuine surprise to an Antivan Crow.

He's mostly done by the time Merrick shuffles out half-asleep, Merrick's timing impeccable even on accident. The kitchen is warm and sweet-smelling with most of their breakfast laid out already on the small table they always dine at together.

"You've been busy," Merrick says, caution evident in his voice. He pauses in the corridor, dressed in an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder and hangs to the middle of his plush thighs. His eyes skirt over the table and then up to Emmrich, who's finishing a simple syrup for the pair of fluffy pancakes already plated up for each of them. "Did Manfred help?"

"He's with Myrna," is Emmrich's light reply. He moves the small pan from the heat of the stove, and gives it a moment to cool before pouring it in a small ceramic pot for the table. "It's just us today."

That wakes Merrick up more. His expression sharpens and his ears flick once, the way they do when he's stumbled on to a puzzle he wasn't expecting. "You made my favorite."

"Some of them." Pancakes, fruit. Soft, fatty bacon for Merrick, cooked the way he came to like it with Taash and Neve at the Lighthouse. A breakfast hash with potatoes and vegetables for both of them — eggs scrambled in for Merrick. Dense, buttery biscuits, the sort of hardy Fereldan meal Harding made. The expensive luxury of fresh fruit juice in Nevarra's harsh winter.

More food than they need. More food than they usually cook together. Foods Merrick never asks for on his own because he knows Emmrich doesn't eat them. A meal pieced together from countless meals and sleepless nights and early mornings during their months together in the Lighthouse, circling their nascent fondness for each other as they studied their likes and dislikes and morning habits and nightly routines with the intensity borne from their respective upbringings.

Merrick's eyes linger on the scramble and the bacon for a moment, and then he looks to Emmrich, eyes bright and hopeful.

"We don't have to eat breakfast," Emmrich says carefully. He watches Merrick tense for a moment as he considers the simple decision — eat, or don't eat — then breathe in and out with a soft sigh of understanding.

"No, I — I mean, yes." Merrick huffs out a shy laugh. His shoulders drop from where they'd crept up around his ears, youthfulness evident in the way gentle excitement lights up his face. "Yeah. Hold on. I need to… just hold on."

He looks to the table again, then Emmrich, with an expression so tender Emmrich feels his chest tighten. Merrick disappears back into the bedroom and Emmrich hears him washing up, rooting through the dresser drawers and wardrobe. Emmrich tries his best to be patient as he struggles against the urge to go check on his partner, spending the interminable moments fussing over the table.

Merrick is welcome to say no in whatever way he needs to, which could certainly include hiding away back in bed — Emmrich doesn't think that's what's happening, but it's hard not to feel that fleeting nervousness.

His patience is rewarded when Merrick appears in the doorway again, though, his face pink from where he's scrubbed the sleep from it and his hair more artfully mussed than the sleep-tossed tangle he'd first walked in with. He's changed, too, the soft, inviting curves of his body now sheathed in the silvery silken nightgown he'd spotted in a shop window a few weeks ago — the one he'd wheedled Emmrich into purchasing him for him with a sweet flutter of his lashes and the promising press of his body to Emmrich's side on the sidewalk.

Merrick ducks his head, tugging at the fabric where it hugs his stomach and hips. It fits perfectly; there's a coy glint in his eyes as he glances up at Emmrich, and Emmrich knows he's just doing it to draw Emmrich's gaze, and maybe his hands, to all the places Emmrich likes to press his fingers in to feel the give of Merrick's body beneath his. That's Merrick's yes, dressing himself in offering in the same way Emmrich has dressed the table.

"You cooked a lot," Merrick breathes. He takes a step forward and rests a hand on the back of his chair; Emmrich steps forward to draw it back for him, compelled to chivalry the way he thinks most of Merrick's marks must have been by the invitation of his wide eyes and soft frame and the drape of shimmering silk across his body. "It all smells amazing, I don't even know where to start."

There's a needling edge to his voice — not mean or suspicious, but testing, like he's pressing his fingers around a boundry trying to find out where it might give. If Emmrich will give in to the urge to cradle Merrick in tender reassurances before Merrick even reaches for his fork. You don't have to eat it all. Here's where I hid it. We could just go back to bed.

Emmrich pushes the chair forward just slightly once Merrick is seated, and then seats himself, unfolding a napkin over his lap. He watches Merrick for a long moment; after a beat, Merrick does the same, face slightly pink as he follows an instruction that was never given, an expectation of etiquette drilled into him by countless formal dinners.

"That's unfair," he says, tone wry and closer to the Merrick that Emmrich grew so fond of at the Lighthouse, away from Antiva's influence. "You can't do that."

Can't expect the same silent acqueisence that … certain other people in Merrick's life do. That Viago does, Emmrich's mind supplies, despite his best efforts not to think of it directly. "It seems I can," Emmrich retorts. He reaches for his knife and fork, and, after a moment, adds, "I'm not sure I'll make a habit of it," with a hint of apology.

Merrick's eyes skirt Emmrich's face, undoubtedly catching his evident discomfort. He watches him for a moment and then reaches for the syrup, pouring it over the pancakes and fruit. "You have your own ways," he concedes, the apology accepted. Emmrich watches one thin strap of the dressing gown slip off Merrick's shoulder as he offers the syrup from across the table, and Merrick doesn't bother pushing it back up. "Did you want some?"

An amateur mistake, on Emmrich's part. The syrup isn't laced, which Merrick has obviously worked out — it can't be, if they're sharing just the one little pot.

Well, that's not strictly true. There are antidotes he could have laced his own food with, but he hadn't thought that far head, not being in the habit of poisoning anyone's meals, much less his own meals, and Merrick is experienced enough with both poisons and Emmrich to have worked that out as well.

Merrick is tense with anticipation, waiting for Emmrich's response; even if the truth is obvious either way, if Emmrich says no, it feels like he's making the game less fun.

The dinner, again. Moves and countermoves. Merrick sits down to dinner in Salle, in Rialto, in Treviso, knowing what will be expected of him every single time. For his faults, which Emmrich considers extensive, Viago is nothing if not transparent, and there is a certain respect afforded to Merrick in the frankness of it all.

"Thank you, dearest." Emmrich takes the pot, and showers his own pancakes in a lighter drizzle of syrup. Delight lights up Merrick's face immediately, and Emmrich feels a desperate surge of warm affection.

Beyond the bacon, they're sharing nearly everything else on their plates, which seems to bring the meal into sharper focus for Merrick.

Merrick takes a bite of the pancakes, a slight furrow to his brow as he considers each bite with the gentle scholarly intensity he sets himself to when shadowing Emmrich through the Grand Necropolis as Merrick tries to figure out how to make his own place there.

He can see the moments Merrick takes to puzzle out the most likely culprits. Not the syrup, which is shared. Not the juice, which would be too uncomfortable a mirror of their last disastrous family dinner. The bacon wouldn't be impossible, but the taste would be more evident.

They discuss Emmrich's upcoming courses in between sips of juice that Merrick savors, and Merrick's keen anticipation for the Winter Games as they indulge in dense honey-buttered biscuits. Merrick's fingers tremble each time they reach for some new bite, and the little furrow in his brow grows more frustrated each time he finds himself stymied.

Eventually he sets himself on the scramble — potatoes, peppers, mushrooms, eggs, a hearty breakfast that would have been fine on its own with the biscuit. The volume is as practical as it is indulgent; Emmrich doesn't anticipate Merrick having much of an appetite after, at least not for another full meal.

But there is something unexpectedly satisfying about watching Merrick work his way through his plate. Merrick will eat it all. He was raised the way Emmrich was raised: poor, even if it was through denial rather than lack of access. Merrick embraces the luxury of being a Talon's protege with the enthusiasm of someone keen to experience as much as he can before it's stripped away from him again.

With Emmrich he embraces those same luxuries with a cultivated, doe-eyed distance; while Emmrich lives comfortably, he does not have coffers as well-stocked as House de Riva, and the game they play of Emmrich indulging his well-tended pet Crow is both a fun — and perhaps somewhat petty, given the gossip that has begun to take root amongst the Watch and its noble sponsors about them — way to make those luxuries permissible with no strings attached. At least, no strings they have not both willingly and enthusiastically tangled themselves in.

Left to his own devices, Merrick makes his own choices based on a cautious frugality, the same sort that Emmrich does, a shared sense of caution there seems to be no reason to leave behind. Clothes mended, ingredients stretched as far as they can go. No scrap wasted.

For their normal habits, what Emmrich has offered is an unexpected overindulgence. The Merrick that Emmrich never met, the one who scrounged for his next meal in crumbs left behind, who tolerated those early weeks of poisoned meals even anticipating his own demise because it was more food than he'd ever earned before, finds an unexpected accord with the darling, spoiled creature Merrick enjoys playacting as in the moment Merrick lifts a forkful of eggs pocked with diced mushrooms to his lips.

Merrick pauses mid-chew, then chews more slowly. He reaches for the juice first, then falters, fingers flexing. Emmrich pushes a glass of water across the table instead. Merrick sips, and takes another bite of the scrambled, fishing for the mushrooms specifically.

Someone else might think he was savoring it; Emmrich knows better. "I tried something different this time," he says lightly. "You'll tell me if it's to your tastes, I hope. If you'd prefer something else…"

You don't have to finish. Of course there's an antidote.

You can't expect me not to help you.

Merrick reaches for Emmrich's hand across the table and gives it a gentle squeeze before digging back into his eggs. "The mushrooms?"

Emmrich lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and relaxes, returning his attention to his own plate. "I soaked some of them in a tincture. I remembered what you said about the torte."

"Oh." It's more of a sigh than anything else, and when Emmrich glances up Merrick is looking at him with the sort of heated expression he usually wears when he's attempting to coax Emmrich into bed. "You're a good listener."

It's far too soon for it to be the mushrooms. Emmrich shifts in his seat, resisting the urge to palm himself through his pajamas. "It comes with practice, as I'm sure you'll one day learn." That earns Emmrich a snort, and he hides a smile of his own behind a bite of pancake. "You like them?"

"You should make this again," Merrick replies through another hearty bite. "Whenever you want."

Emmrich laughs and lets them fall into a more companionable silence as they eat. Emmrich clears his own plate as a courtesy; there are limits to how far he wants to push this game, and both of their relationships with access to food are fraught enough that he doesn't want to do anything to make this less enjoyable for Merrick.

There's the embarrassment he seems to enjoy — Emmrich taking advantage of his compulsion to clear his plate, knowing just how much is on the verge of too much, preparing rich luxuries like the bacon and sweet syrup and dense pancakes for Merrick to enthusiastically indulge in — and the shame Emmrich thinks would sour the day, leaving something uneaten to go to waste or clearing his own plate in the face of Emmrich's calculated restraint.

Things Merrick doesn't know how to know about himself until Emmrich shows him; things Emmrich didn't know how to know until he saw the memories of his own childhood reflected in Merrick's behavior. It's the sort of careful calculation Viago would likely think makes him and Emmrich more alike than Emmrich wants to admit, but he can't imagine Merrick ever picking through a poisoned meal in Rialto with such a relaxed droop to his shoulders or delight in his eyes.

The dose is low, enough for Merrick to know but not enough to have him senseless right away, and Emmrich can see when the poison starts to hit in the middle of a story about his most recent visit to Arlathan with Davrin. A brief unfocusing of Merrick's eyes — the madcap, a smaller dosage ground with other ingredients to create that foggy sensation that seems to make Merrick squirm so sweetly. The way Merrick sighs, and breathes in, and sighs again like he can't entirely catch his breath makes lust curl low in Emmrich's belly.

Merrick swipes his thumb across the small pool of syrup left on his plate and licks it clean with a satisfied sigh, eyes dark and still calculating where he looks at Emmrich from under his long lashes. He's eaten most of his food. There's a small bit of biscuit, a few crumbles of bacon, some small scraps of egg. He's eaten all of the mushrooms, of course, picked them out first and left a only few chunks of pepper on the plate.

He licks his lips absently, and after a moment something in his expression shifts ever so slightly. Merrick glances to his plate and then back to Emmrich with a hint of nervousness that Emmrich wants to kiss from his face, the sort of nervousness he'd attempted to stave off eating his own meal.

Instead, Emmrich just drops his napkin across his plate, and Merrick relaxes as he does the same. Merrick finishes the last swallow of juice from his glass and then without warning disappears beneath the table before Emmrich can say anything. Soon enough his clever fingers are sliding up Emmrich's thighs.

Emmrich watches him with an arched eyebrow, moving his chair back just enough for Merrick to better creep between his legs. "Looking for something, my love?"

"No." Merrick's already undoing the knot in the tie of Emmrich's pajamas, and once again the heat in his eyes is not entirely the potion. "Showing my appreciation."

Oh. Emmrich slides one hand into Merrick's hair, carding through his soft curls. His fingers tighten as Merrick gets impatient, leaning in to mouth at the line of Emmrich's cock through the soft fabric before he can work out how to tug his pajamas down while Emmrich's still seated in the chair. "Your enthusiasm is thanks enough, Merrick."

Seemingly not, at least to Merrick; his eager mouth finds the tip of Emmrich's erection, and when Merrick feels Emmrich tremble with the effort of keeping still he flashes Emmrich a terribly smug look. "You don't want me to?" There's a hint of a whine in his voice as Merrick palms Emmrich. "You did such a good job, putting all of this together."

He breathes out against wet fabric and Emmrich tugs a little at Merrick's hair before he can help himself, getting a breathy whimper in return. Merrick swallows hard, pupils blown wide as he looks up at Emmrich from between Emmrich's thighs. "Was it hard? To poison me, I mean."

"Not as much as it should have been," Emmrich replies, before he can help himself. Merrick rewards him by mouthing at his cock again, tonguing at where precome is starting to stain his pajamas. "I do have some experience with alchemy."

"'course you do." Merrick's brow furrows and he goes for Emmrich's waistband, his impatience evident. Emmrich shifts in the chair enough to let Merrick work down his pajamas enough to get at Emmrich's cock, which he licks a wet stripe along with a satisfied hum. "You're so smart," he murmurs, and Emmrich shivers as Merrick wraps a soft hand around him, stroking slowly. "You knew exactly what to do with me."

Oh, Emmrich shouldn't preen the way he does at that — but he does preen, and it is true, after all. Why else would Merrick have trusted him with this, if not for their shared confidence in Emmrich's abilities? He traces a thumb across one cheek, over the branches of Merrick's vallaslin. "You make an apt pupil of me."

If it's more saccharine than Merrick was expecting, he doesn't complain. He flushes darker still, a sincere glint of delight in his eyes at the idea that he is, on his own, someone worth wanting to know about. He stares up at Emmrich again for a long moment, and then wraps his mouth around Emmrich's cock as if to distract both of them from their own sentimentality.

It works, of course, no matter how much tenderness Emmrich might try to cradle Merrick's head in his hands with. It's hard to find the words for how exquisite Merrick is — the flutter of his lashes at his cheeks as his eyes slide shut, the way his dressing gown bunches in his lap as his thick thighs part while he kneels. The inviting wet warmth of his mouth and his needy noises, the way he can't seem to resist the urge to tip his head into Emmrich's fingers every time Emmrich strokes his mess of dark curls.

Emmrich lets legs fall open as best he can, half-trapped by his own pajamas, and Merrick seems to delight in that too. He sees one of Merrick's hands creep down between his own thighs and gives Merrick's hair a gentle tug to get his attention.

"It rather defeats the purpose if you're doing most of the work," Emmrich manages, and annoyance flickers briefly over Merrick's features the way it so often does at the carefully-maintained composure Emmrich has cultivated over decades. Merrick likes to make a mess of Emmrich, but something about the challenge Emmrich provides seems to inspire him as much as it frustrates him.

Merrick sits back on his heels just slightly, fingers toying with the hem of his dressing gown where the silk is bunched across the pale expanse of his thighs. "Is that your way of saying you wanna fuck me?"

Emmrich scoffs faintly at the crass language the way Merrick expects him to in moments like this, every bit the prim academic Merrick delights in debauching. "Have I ever been so unimaginative with you, my sweet?" He thumbs at the tip of Merrick's ear, hearing the way Merrick's breath catches. "I should clean up."

Merrick falters at that, bewildered, head tilted into Emmrich's hand. He waits a moment and then tries to lean in, reaching for Emmrich's cock again slowly as if Emmrich won't notice. "It can wait."

"You can wait," Emmrich replies, and Merrick stares at him for a long moment, ear flicking in annoyance under Emmrich's touch.

Merrick has never been especially good at waiting which, to Emmrich, is part of the fun for him. The longer Merrick is made to wait, the more he seems to spiral, needy and sulking. Emmrich slips his hand from Merrick's hair and pushes his chair back, swallowing a little sigh as he tucks himself back into his pajama bottoms. "Besides, I have something else for you."

That improves Merrick's mood immediately, as the promise of a gift often does. He doesn't get up right away, just waits for Emmrich to stand and extend his hands to help him, which Emmrich does, of course. He bends down to kiss Merrick with a pleased hum, meeting him before Merrick can rock up on his toes.

"A gift?" Merrick licks his lips, shifting restlessly on his feet. "Maybe I could wait a little." His cheeks are rosy, pupils a little wider than they were a few moments ago. He presses a hand to Emmrich's nightshirt, walking two fingers up the button placket as he presses closer. "I'm sure you'll make it worth it."

Merrick looks up at him with a coy little smile, the sort he'd flashed Emmrich when they were pressed close just like this outside the window of the shop where he'd bought Merrick the dressing gown.

The promise of the poison puts the tightrope they often walk together in stark relief: Merrick is often not himself by design, Merrick is pushing Emmrich to put that careful, manipulative control beyond Merrick's grasp as much as Emmrich is pushing Merrick to embrace the undercurrent of authenticity beneath the playacting.

It's enough for Merrick that Emmrich has given Merrick this much. He would gladly accept a morning of feeling pleasantly fuzzy around the edges and a warm bath in the evening. It would be more comfortable, certainly, but that's the point even more than the aphrodisiac. Merrick enjoys the thought of inspiring Emmrich to engage in something a little underhanded — a little inappropriate, like wearing a scandalously young man on his arm in social circles, a senior member of the Mourn Watch and his caged Antivan Crow — and Emmrich enjoys his enjoyment enough to want to try.

Emmrich kisses him again, lingering this time, feeling Merrick melt into him. "I'll meet you in the bedroom."

Merrick gives an impatient little wiggle, and waits just long enough to see if Emmrich will change his mind before he finally retreats again. Emmrich doesn't intend to make him wait terribly long, not this time at least; he fetches the last surprise of the day and follows after him in short order, finding Merrick perched on the edge of the bed. He's trailing his fingers idly over his stomach, staring down at the rippling fabric of his dressing gown with a slightly distant expression.

His eyes go to the small plate in Emmrich's hand as soon as he realizes Emmrich has entered the room, and his face lights up. "Bonbons?"

Three of them, Merrick's favorites from a little shop they frequent when Emmrich has reason to visit the wealthier market neighborhood. "Cherry cordials." There's a mug, too, which Emmrich sets on the end table, and then Emmrich moves the plate away before Merrick can reach for it and moves to step between Merrick's legs.

Merrick's brow furrows for a moment before he sets his hands on Emmrich's hips, fingers creeping beneath the hem of Emmrich's night shirt. He seems to be toying with the fabric more than anything else, fidgeting restlessly as he tries to keep focus. "You made more?"

Emmrich cradles Merrick's jaw in is hands, tracing his thumbs over the branching lines of Mythal's vallaslin. "You thought I wouldn't?"

A beat. Merrick's hesitation is answer enough, and Emmrich doesn't take offense. Especially not when Merrick parts his thighs to make room to draw Emmrich closer, staring up at him with a hint of shy adoration creeping through the fog. "I wasn't complaining."

"It's for you," Emmrich replies easily. He drags his thumb across Merrick's full bottom lip instead. "I do love to spoil you."

Merrick lets out a shuddery little sigh. His fingers brush Emmrich's skin just over the waist of his pajama bottoms, flushed from the aphrodisiac, and his eyes dart to the plate, still just out of Emmrich's reach. "Are they for now?"

"Unless you're too full from breakfast."

"No," is Merrick swift and sure reply. He licks his lips, and looks back to Emmrich. "I can have a little more." A little flutter of his lashes. "If you think I should."

Emmrich's not out to deny him anything, not really, but being made to be patient will push Merrick closer to the space he wants to be in. He offers the plate, and Merrick takes a cherry cordial, popping the whole thing in his mouth with a pleased little wriggle that makes the surprise on his face when he takes a bite maybe just a little laughable.

He'd considered doing anything other than cherry cordials, but nothing else seemed quite right. They've become one of Merrick's favorite indulgences in the months since he'd started visiting Emmrich more often, and finally moved in — Merrick has wheedled Emmrich into buying them for him on countless trips into Nevarra City proper, in the same way he wheedled Emmrich into trying this in the first place. A bargain Merrick never stood a chance of losing.

It's important to Emmrich that Merrick enjoy this, and he knows that part of Merrick's enjoyment is the feeling that he's coaxed Emmrich into indulging his baser nature by tempting Merrick with a little bite he's hopeless to resist.

From a practical perspective, it had seemed the best choice besides. The earthiness of the tincture undoubtedly gives the cordials an unexpected layer of flavor, and the syrupy coating affords Emmrich an opportunity to offer a more concentrated dose than the very mild tincture he'd soaked the mushrooms for breakfast in.

Emmrich knows he's done well. A demonstration of Emmrich's competency turned to a task solely meant for Merrick's pleasure is, as Emmrich is well-aware by this point in their courtship, a not insignificant part of the appeal. No matter how strange the work may be, Emmrich will always take pride and care with it.

Merrick seems to be spiraling through the same line of thought, not so far gone yet that he can't find it in him to indulge his insatiable professional curiosity. "It's weird," he mumbles finally, through a mostly-chewed bite. He swallows, brow furrowed. "Stronger?"

"Observant as ever." Emmrich sets the plate aside, next to the mug, and makes sure Merrick acknowledges that too. "Drink the tea, if you find you don't care for it."

He doubts Merrick will. But Merrick's expression softens, just a little, at the reassurance he won't have to jump through the hoops he is so often forced to navigate if he feels as if he's no longer enjoying their game.

There is only so far Emmrich is able to engage. Whatever paternalistic tendancy someone else might want to imply in the way he engages with Merrick about untangling himself from the Crows, Emmrich at least feels confident that this — giving Merrick the simple choice about his own wants and needs — is the right one.

Emmrich brushes a stray curl from Merrick's cheek, watching as Merrick chews and swallows. "I'm going to tidy the kitchen," he murmurs. "I'll hear you, if you need anything."

"'m sure you will," Merrick breathes. He falls back into the bed, sinking into the sheets as he closes his eyes. "I love you."

Emmrich tugs at Merrick's dressing gown where its ridden up his thighs, mostly just for an excuse to skate his fingers over Merrick's soft skin. "I love you too."

He watches Merrick for a moment as Merrick seems to just be processing, and when Merrick finally cracks an eye open to watch him in return, Emmrich chuckles and finally retreats to the kitchen.

He tends to clean as he goes, when he cooks, so things aren't terribly messy, but his primary goal is just to give Merrick space to figure out how he feels as the stronger dose takes hold.

It is strange, to know Merrick is drugged in the bedroom, poisoned intentionally by Emmrich's hand. He hears Merrick wriggling restlessly from their bedroom, his occasional sulky sighs and petulant noises as Emmrich rinses and dries their plates. The fact that Emmrich has turned the force of his academic expertise to the task of driving Merrick out of his mind with lust by some artificial means makes it difficult to focus on any one dirtied dish for more than a few moments at a time.

The gingerwort truffle tea situation had been different. It was an accident, firstly, soon enough after the first time they'd been intimate that Emmrich had felt profoundly guilty when Merrick had been hauled back clearly inebriated and very eager to fool around. Emmrich had felt guiltier after indulging him, though Merrick had sheepishly admitted the following morning that the distance afforded him from his own body by the tea, and the knowledge that Emmrich would be there to tend to him, held a not insignificant appeal.

Diving into it with intent is somehow easier and more complicated. The trust they'd had during the gingerwort incident is more deeply rooted, but that doesn't entirely diminish the hint of shame tangled up with lust in the pit of Emmrich's stomach knowing they've recreated the incident with lacivious intent.

As the minutes pass, Merrick's petulant noises tip into something else — the shifting on the sheets seems to have more intent, and eventually there's an only slightly theatrical moan. Emmrich clutches tighter at the cutlery as he cleans it, and barely registers that he drops the handtowel when he washes and dries his hands once everything is put away.

Merrick seems to have gotten too distracted to keep up with the theater all by the time Emmrich returns to the bedroom. Emmrich pauses in the doorway to find Merrick on his knees on the bed, cheek pressed to a pillow, a hand between his thighs.

"I can hear you," Merrick mumbles, half-muffled by the pillow. "You took —" His breath catches and he parts his thighs a little wider. Emmich palms himself through his pajama bottoms before he can help himself as the satin of Merrick's nightshirt rides up higher over the curve of his ass. "You took forever."

He falters for a moment, like he's considering turning over and can't decide if he wants to turn over enough to stop touching himself. Emmrich steps to the side of the bed and reaches to slide a hand up the line of Merrick's back, rucking the soft silk of his dressing gown even higher. Merrick's hips twitch into his hand.

"You got impatient," Emmrich replies, hearing the strain in his own voice. "That's hardly my fault, my love." He slides his hand back down, down over the generous curve of Merrick's ass, watching the little tremble of his thighs as Emmrich slips his hand between Merrick's legs. His fingers skirt over Merrick's as Merrick teases himself; he's so wet already, it's easy for Emmrich to press a finger into him, dragging a startlingly throaty moan from Merrick's throat.

"I got horny," Merrick pants, pressing his cheek harder into the pillows as he arches into the touch. "You …" He arches his back, urging Emmrich's fingers deeper. "You didn't say no."

If he was meaner, Emmrich might have, but at least for today the purpose of this is to let Merrick be exactly as he is right now — desperate, needy, uninhibited. Emmrich indulges him without hesitation, nudging another finger alongside the first and sighing as Merrick clenches around them.

It's not long before Merrick is coming with a satisfied sigh, one hand between his thighs and the other clutching at the sheets as he trembles around Emmrich's fingers. Emmrich considers fucking him through it for a moment, working his fingers into him til Merrick tries to squirm away from him, but it's worth checking in. There are more bonbons, after all, and there is ample time.

Merrick slumps into the sheets when Emmrich slips his fingers out, turning onto his back and looking a bit startled by his own orgasm when he examines his wet fingers. He drops both his hands to his stomach, drumming distractedly at it with his fingertips as he stares up at Emmrich. "'m wet," he says absently.

"You are," is Emmrich's dry reply. He watches Merrick as he slides his fingers into his own mouth, tasting the chase of Merrick from his skin — Merrick's fingers creep back towards his thighs in response, slowly, like he's not sure he has it in him to touch himself again just yet.

Emmrich climbs into bed, sliding his hands up Merrick's legs as he pushes them apart enough to settle between them. Merrick's legs part easily for him, spread wide, eager to accomodate. "You seem comfortable."

"You're not fucking me." Merrick's expression goes cloudy and petulant. He's unfocused and restless, wriggling against the sheets. He hooks a leg over Emmrich's hip. "How come." He drapes one arm over his eyes, lips pursed. "The bonbon was stronger."

"I only just got here, my dear." Emmrich brings one hand to Merrick's thigh, the one with slick fingers, and lifts the other to brush Merrick's hair back again as Emmrich searches his face. A little smugly, he adds, "And that was somewhat the point."

Merrick's skin is flushed from the tips of his ears down past his collarbone, and his pupils are blown wide when he up at Emmrich from under his arm — when Emmrich holds a finger up, Merrick watches it for a moment but loses track of it when Emmrich moves it to one side and then the other with the patience of someone who's been checked for many a concussion in an infirmary bed.

No surprises there, really. He seems to be reacting in line with Emmrich's anticipated response when he'd crafted the poison in the first place. Merrick's breathing is quick and shallow, but he seems to be getting enough air.

Emmrich drops a hand to Merrick's hip and spans it wide across the curve of his stomach, sliding it up, tracing the tattoos he knows are there and the scars beneath his pectoralis before teasing Merrick's nipple under the silk of the dressing gown with his thumb. Merrick trembles; Emmrich's hand slides a little higher still, palm pressed to his heartbeat. It's elevated, but not alarmingly so.

Merrick arches under Emmrich's inquisitive touch. "I feel like one of your…" He trails off, and tries wriggling down the bed to get himself properly into Emmrich's lap. "On the slab."

A specimen, pinned down to undergo Emmrich's enthusiastic inspection.

His uncoordinated impatience is as terribly charming as it is arousing, and Emmrich placates him by resting his other hand low on Merrick's stomach, hand spanning wide as Emmrich presses his thumb over Merrick's sensitive clit. He tenses immediately with a tremulous sigh, eyes sliding down over Emmrich to stare at Emmrich's hand between his thighs.

Emmrich teases him with a slow and steady circling of his thumb. Merrick tries to arch into it further and his foot slips on the sheets, and Emmrich's cock twitches with unexpected arousal.

It's easy to consider this some generous gift on Emmrich's part, indulging some unmet need of Merrick's as any courteous, devoted lover would. But maybe there is some unmet need of Emmrich's to consider too, that his clever, Crow-trained paramour has prised from Emmrich without his knowledge.

It's hard to let go of his scholarly tendencies, despite Emmrich's best efforts. Merrick is a fascinating rare discovery to be taken apart piece by exquisite piece, spiraling in the quiet haven of their bedroom like the grand components of the Lighthouse's astrolabe.

Merrick's gaze is a little sharper when Emmrich meets it again, though it's only by some small measure. His emotions are more transparent on his face, smug delight evident for a moment before his eyes shut tight, mouth slack around a whine as he tries again to rock into Emmrich's hand. "Am I healthy, professor?"

Emmrich snorts. "Hale and hearty, dearest," he says dryly. "A bit loose-limbed, but that's to be expected." The generous curve of his ass is so temptingly close to Emmrich's erection; if Merrick were sober, he'd be in Emmrich' slap already, panting into Emmrich's ear as he gets them both off with a slow, steady grind.

Instead, Merrick tries to grab for Emmrich's wrist and misses with a frustrated noise. Emmrich hasn't seen Merrick so uncoordinated since the gingerwort incident. Expected or no, seeing Merrick half out of his faculties is so different from the hypothetical and startlingly hot.

He stops touching Merrick long enough to bend down to kiss him, swallowing Merrick's annoyed curse even as it turns into a needy noise. Merrick slides his hands through Emmrich's hair, parts his lips with a sigh at the insistent press of Emmrich's tongue, preens at whatever he sees in Emmrich's face for the moment Merrick manages to meet his eyes again.

"You'll take care of me, won't you?" There's a coy edge to Merrick's voice, cut with a taunting edge. "Emmrich?"

Merrick de Riva — Antivan Crow, poisoner's protege, Talon's heir, a hero of Thedas — has made himself so terribly vulnerable. Has made himself vulnerable for his own enjoyment, of course, but for Emmrich's, too, allowed himself to be made so foggy-brained and loose-limbed that he cannot handwave off Emmrich's eagerness to devote himself so thoroughly to the care and keeping of Merrick's body and spirit.

There is a profound responsibility there, of course, but an undercurrent of possession Emmrich so often tries to ignore when he insists so often upon honoring Merrick's autonomy outside Antiva. Leave it to Merrick to find a way to coax it out of him, even like this.

"Even now you find new ways to bewitch me," Emmrich murmurs, kissing the corner of Merrick's mouth, and then the round curve of his jaw, and then the jut of his collarbone and lower still.

Merrick lets out a hum of acknowledgement as he smooths a hand over his hair and then drops it to Emmrich's shirt, distracted by the texture of it. "Quit this."

Wearing clothes, he means, presumably. Emmrich sheds his shirt and Merrick's fingers skirt distractedly along his bare arm with a pleased hum before Merrick tries to reach for his cock again. "You're still not fucking me," he grumbles.

Emmrich snorts against one of Merrick's tattoos even as he goes to finally push his pajama pants down. "Good to see you've managed to retain some semblance of focus."

Insofar as there is any real dilemma to the day, it's Merrick's seemingly indefatigueable arousal, and his uncoordinated impatience. Emmrich presses him into the mattress, pushing Merrick's thighs back slightly as he fucks into him finally, and Merrick's hands go flying, scrambling for something to hold — Emmrich, the sheets, his hair, finally the headboard which he smacks his knuckles into with a thump and a yelp.

"If you quit," Merrick grinds out, managing to get his hand on Emmrich's bicep instead. "Emmrich."

His eyes are wide and wet when he comes again, and he unsuccessfully tries to wriggle and twist to get Emmrich on his back instead when Emmrich pulls out with a strained noise to come across Merrick's stomach. Merrick isn't shy in bed by any stretch, but there's always an air of performance about him — the right amount of cloying encouragement, just enough rumbled debauchery. Artfully tousled, as if in competition with Merrick's perception of Emmrich's own practiced composure.

This Merrick is a beautiful, ungainly mess. Emmrich gives up on undressing him fully, as the more worked up Merrick gets the harder it seems to be to coordinate both limbs long enough for Emmrich to peel his dressing gown up and over his head, and when it's too bunched around his arms Merrick wriggles incessantly at the feel of it piled up too much beneath his back on the bed.

His wriggling sends one of Merrick's knees perilously close to Emmrich's ribs, and Emmrich grimaces even as Merrick pets uselessly at his arm.

"Sorry," Merrick mumbles. He smacks his lips with a frustrated noise. "You got in the way."

Hard to feel annoyed when Merrick is blinking up at him like this, fucked out already. Emmrich bends down to kiss his forehead before extricating himself from between Merrick's legs. He considers fetching a wet cloth, but before he can Merrick has his own hand pressed in the mess across his stomach, some unshared thought furrowing his brow.

"My sincerest apologies for putting myself in the path of your knee, Merrick." Emmrich settles for brushing his hair from his face, trying not to think too much about the way Merrick's fingers linger on the low curve of his own belly. "Can you sit up for me, please?"

Merrick stares up at him as if Emmrich has asked him to rend the Fade. "Yeah."

He makes no effort, til Emmrich helps haul him up to lean against the pile of pillows at the headboard. Merrick tries to twist away, squirming like a cat on the rough cobblestone streets of Dock Town, sliding back down ever so slowly. Emmrich tries, once, to get Merrick to hold the glass, but it seems unwise to let him try to handle it on his own.

"You're going to have to drink," Emmrich sighs, not exasperated with Merrick but a little annoyed at his own lack of foresight.

Merrick's lashes flutter against his cheeks for a moment and then Merrick reaches for Emmrich's mostly-soft cock.

Before he can help himself, one of Emmrich's hands flashes green, and Merrick's hand is halted — Emmrich's got the water in one hand and had gone to cradle Merrick's jaw with the other, no other way to stop Merrick but magic.

Merrick trembles. His eyes go wide, and a little frantic. Emmrich waits a moment for Merrick's brain to catch up, and after a moment Merrick licks his lips.

"So you can drink," Emmrich murmurs.

It's not just for that. It is — it has to be, at first, to keep Merrick hydrated. He presses Merrick's arms to his sides, cradles Merrick's jaw in his hand to help him take a few sips. Merrick's breathing picks up even further, and he lets out a faint, frustrated noise, cheeks scarlet as he stares up at Emmrich.

Merrick trembles so hard in the green grasp of Emmrich's magic that Emmrich leaves him that way once Merrick's had enough to drink, tipping him back onto the mattress unable to move as Emmrich drags his tongue through his messy folds, licking Merrick to another gasping orgasm as his body struggles to writhe beneath the gentle press of Emmrich's magic pinning him into the soft sheets.

Merrick sags into the pillows when Emmrich releases the spell. He glances towards the side table, considering the mug and the two remaining cordials as he catches his breath. "There's extras," he whispers, like it's too hard to get any more volume.

Emmrich kisses his thigh. "There are."

There's a question even in Merrick's ensuing silence. He shifts under Emmrich, tries to stroke his hair again and mostly gets in a reassurig pat.

Another kiss to Merrick's thigh, and Emmrich sits up, leaning across Merrick to retrieve another bonbon. "Can you sit this time, darling?"

Merrick just holds out a hand expectantly. With help, maybe. Emmrich helps him sit upright, settled against the pillows again, and Merrick manages to get his hands planted firmly enough on the mattress that he can keep himself up as Emmrich cradles Merrick's jaw in his other hand.

His eyes are shut, and he looks so terribly sweet this way, his face slack and soft and open. His lips are parted in anticipation, and Emmrich presses the cherry cordial there, holding it to his mouth and stroking his thumb over the apple of Merrick's cheek as he chews and swallows.

"I do love you terribly, you know," Emmrich murmurs. He leans in close, bumping his nose to Merrick's before pressing their foreheads together for just a moment. "How blessed I am to have met you."

Merrick licks his lips idly, chasing the taste of cherry cordial across them. "'cause I let you drug me up," he retorts, pleased as punch about whatever face Emmrich must be making in response. "You're really…"

He skirts his fingers over Emmrich's side, absently counting his ribs. He thumbs at the place he might slip a knife, on someone else. Hopefully only ever on someone else, when the situation calls for it. It takes Merrick a moment to catch up to the line of thought again.

"You do poisons good. And magic." Merrick swallows hard again and shudders, pressing his thighs together before he falls back into the mattress and out of Emmrich's grasp. "And…"

He pats a hand between his thighs, hips twitching up into the absent-minded swatting at his sensitive cunt. "You should fuck me again."

Presumably because Emmrich's good at it, given the conversational thread. Merrick flashes him a look that Emmrich imagines is meant to be sultry, and even if it doesn't quite land, Emmrich rewards him with a lingering kiss.

It seems to hit him all at once, this time. Emmrich can feel his pulse fluttering faster when he dips lower to kiss the curve of his throat; Merrick's thighs press together and he promptly tries to work a hand between himself and Emmrich to grind against his fingers.

"Feed me at breakfast next time," Merrick manages, words slurred. His other hand flexes against Emmrich's thigh. "I like when you do."

As much as Emmrich wants to indulge him straightaway, he cannot quite divest himself of his academic sensibilities enough to not want to wait and let the second — third — dose fully take hold. He settles himself against the headboard as well, one arm around Merrick again, stroking his side the way he had days ago when they'd discussed the prospect of this in the first place.

Merrick sighs under the feel of it, and slumps against his side, then lets himself seem to slink farther down the bed til his head is once again pillowed on Emmrich's thigh. "Can I… I wanna…" He swallows hard, trying to wriggle to meet Emmrich's eyes again and huffing out an annoyed breath when he finds it more challenging than he seems to have expected. "Your cock," he pants finally, and Emmrich considers the prospect.

Safe enough, at least like this. Emmrich cards his fingers sweetly through Merrick's hair, and nudges him closer, head falling back against the headboard with a thump and a soft groan as Merrick mouths at the tip of his cock.

"You don't think you'd be too spoiled, if I fed you every day?" Emmrich watches Merrick through heavy-lidded eyes, toying with his messy curls.

All he gets in return is a noncommital noise that rattles against Emmrich's skin, making him shiver under Merrick's idle mouthing and lazy swipes of his tongue.

It's easy to allow the idea of it to spiral out ahead of Emmrich all the same, though. "Maybe not every meal," he murmurs. His other hand clutches at the sheets; it's difficult to rock his hips like this regardless, but as Merrick's hand slides up Emmrich's thigh so he can tease his fingers over Emmrich's sac, Merrick pauses just a moment to flash a smug little smile at Emmrich — encouragement.

"Perhaps just the cordials." Emmrich's rewarded with another lick. "In the study, next time." The plush oversized chair that Merrick likes to curl up with Emmrich in as Manfred settles on the ottoman with them. "Another batch. You've done so well with two, my love. I could feed you in my lap."

Pressing cordials into his mouth by hand as Merrick straddles him, held upright there by a thin haze and gentle press of green-tinged magecraft.

Merrick exhales against Emmich's cock in a soft huff. "While you fuck me," he whispers. "Please."

He's not sure if Merrick means now, or on this idle fantasy. The latter would be difficult, with Merrick whining in his ear, but perhaps they could read together — or, more accurately, he could read to Merrick — while Merrick warmed his cock, desperate to move and unable to do so til Emmrich deigned to let him.

He does so desperately hope he got the dosage right, so Merrick remembers this later.

Emmrich sits up just enough to reach across to the bedside table, and Merrick finds enough coordination for Emmrich to press the last cordial between his slightly chapped lips before Emmrich tips back onto the bed with him.

There's more, it seems, to prise from Merrick too in much the same way Merrick's dreamy-eyed lust has plumbed an enticing new fantasy from Emmrich's thoughts. The final dose has an endless stream of consciousness spilling from him, from his needy wheedling to a string of slightly comical but charming and startlingly cogents compliments about Emmrich's dick when Emmrich pushes into him again from behind, Merrick's cheek pressed to the pillows mostly so he doesn't choke on his own spit, too distracted to swallow. It's easiest to keep Merrick still with his arms behind his back, wrists in Emmrich's hand in that same dim green haze.

Emmrich relishes in every half-formed thought, every punched out moan, the way Merrick's fingers flex against the constraints of Emmrich's magic every time he loses his grip on the spell, even for a moment. He digs his hands into Merrick's thighs, skirts them over the swaying of his stomach as he fucks him — Merrick trembles harder still, clenching around Emmrich's cock as Emmrich's hand presses into the hang of his belly.

He's only restrained Merrick's arms; when Emmrich presses at his stomach, Merrick shoves his hips back hard enough to fuck himself on Emmrich's cock that it nearly throws Emmrich off balance. "Please," he whines. "I want — I — please —"

"Anything," Emmrich breathes, unsure of what he's agreeing to — as if there's anything he wouldn't agree to, for Merrick. "Anything, Merrick."

"Don't —" Merrick lets out a frustrated nose when Emmrich falters at that. "No, just, don't… when you come…"

He bends to kiss Merrick's sweat-slick skin between his shoulder blades, and the shift makes Merrick dig his teeth into the pillow to stifle a sharp cry. Emmrich doesn't need to hold Merrick's wrists to keep him pinned this way, and he keeps himself braced on one arm, his other hand slipping between Merrick's thighs to stroke his clit.

Merrick whines something against the pillow that Emmrich can vaguely pick out as fuck off. He brushes his lips along the sensitive line of Merrick's ear, rocking harder into Merrick as Merrick clenches around him.

"Don't pull out," Merrick manages, every syllable strained with the effort of gathering his thoughts enough to string them together. "Please, please don't."

Maybe it's the brush of Emmrich's hair against Merrick's skin as he bends low, or Emmrich's hand at his stomach or between this thighs, but soon enough Emmrich is fucking Merrick through another orgasm, coming hard as Merrick shudders apart beneath him.

The magic collapses entirely despite Emmrich's best efforts. He tries, shivering, to pull away when he's collected himself, only to find Merrick grasping at him frantically, mumbling no no no against the pillows. "I need it, please —"

"Merrick —"

"Knock me up," Merrick pants, voice quavering. He tries to look back at Emmrich over his shoulder, hair wild, pupils so wide his eye is barely a thin ring of bright blue around the black. He grasps desperately at any part of Emmrich he can reach to hold him close. There's a calculated glint in his eye even through the unrelenting lust. "You wanna live forever. Live forever with me."

Like the strange shift of the tide before a tidal wave crests on the horizon, Emmrich is left briefly bereft save for the shock of Merrick's words. The idea of it spirals out ahead of him before he can help himself — marriage, Merrick heavily pregnant, rooting their family tree firmly and irrevocably in Nevarra. There would be no other Circle for the mages their children might become.

No reason to leave, and no way to coerce them. Leveage.

Emmrich's orgasm hits like the tidal wave on the shore, swift and staggering. Merrick's eyes are wet again when Emmrich pulls away long enough to turn Merrick over — Emmrich thinks his might be too, but he just bends to kiss him, swallowing Merrick's annoyed noise at being jostled.

"I have to, dearest," Emmrich murmurs, kissing the corner of Merrick's mouth. "You'll be more comfortable."

Merrick's hand drifts to his stomach, palm pressing there for a brief moment before his hand dips lower still to slide his fingers through his come-slick folds. He stares up at Emmrich for a moment, eyes heavy-lidded, and Emmrich feels his own stomach lurch with something Merrick isn't cogent enough to discuss right now.

Emmrich winds up sprawled out on the sheets with Merrick drawn into his chest, cradling him there as Merrick buries his face in the curve of Emmrich's throat. He drapes a leg across Emmrich's and tries to creep over, but it seems that at least for now, he's too tired to pull himself over to straddle Emmrich again. He mumbles something there, but in the beat between his mumbling and Emmrich asking after it, Merrick starts to snore.

Emmrich sighs, and with a wave of his hand and a flash of green, draws last night's reading over to page through to make sure Merrick sleeps without issue, and to clear his head enough to be able to discuss it properly once Merrick's sober much later in the day.

***

He's finished the his reading by the time Merrick starts to stir. He stretches out at Emmrich's side with a shuddery groan, curling back into Emmrich's side once he's done.

His breathing has evened out, and he's less flushed now — at least, not any more flushed than Emmrich would expect for being tangled up together in their warm bed. When Merrick peeks up at him, he looks groggy, but more present.

Emmrich tips his head to kiss the top of Merrick's, and Merrick leans into it with a satisfied sigh.

"My mouth feels like cotton," Merrick mumbles, winding his arms around Emmrich's waist.

Emmrich combs his fingers gently through Merrick's hair, smoothing it out. "I'll have to find a way to prevent that, next time."

A presumptuous thought, maybe, but Merrick seems to slump a little against Emmrich's side with a sigh tinged with relief. Whether Merrick chalks it up to Emmrich's academic curiosity — try, and try again — or a more purient interest is unclear, but he seems relieved that Emmrich's first instinct is not to fret, but to ponder improvements.

Merrick reaches up to curl a hand around Emmrich's jaw, tugging him in for a lingering kiss. He does taste a little off, different from the usual staleness of morning.

It seems better not to mention it. Instead, Emmrich just presses one hand to Merrick's at his cheek.

"I didn't embarrass myself too bad, I hope." Merrick's looking at Emmrich but not quite meeting his eyes. He knows what he said. He knows how Emmrich responded.

Emmrich reaches out to tip his chin up just slightly, searching his expression for a regret that, fortuantely, doesn't seem to be there. "No more than me, I'm sure," he says dryly, and the rough laugh that nets him in return finally lets Emmrich relax fully. "You'll have to forgive me if I'm in no rush to leave bed."

Merrick laughs again, a little brighter, and flashes Emmrich a look of smug satisfaction. "Don't tell me I wore you out." His eyes flicker over Emmrich's face, and he seems to settle himself when Emmrich just offers a fond smile in return. "'m guessing we're not going anywhere else today?"

"Only where you want to go, Merrick." A beat, and Emmrich glances towards the washroom. "Well, and perhaps the bath."

A long soak to decompress, and perhaps talk through the experience in whatever way Merrick is most comfortable with. Whatever answers they come to, there are paths forward — though it is terribly difficult not to let his mind drift back to the thought of it, a family of their own raised in comfort and security, far away from their own childhoods.

A conversation for later, when the cordials have worked their way from Merrick's system, and both of them are on a more even keel.

Merrick watches Emmrich for a long moment, and finally reaches up to curl a hand around his jaw, drawing Emmrich in for a soft kiss. "Okay," he sighs, tucking his face back in the warm crook of Emmrich's shoulder with a soft, pleased sigh. "I think I could go anywhere, as long as it's with you."

Notes:

thank you so much for reading, and thank you again to the amazing inayashaa for the incredible art! you can find him at in4yashaa on tumblr (where i'm also tuffgreg).

title from guard down by august moon, a surprise banger from the fake one direction band in “the idea of us” lol