Emmrich who is acutely aware of the needs of each of his students. Schedules planned, each bespoke and tailored to their distinctive learning styles and preferences. He would have an answer for their questions before they were even asked, books and references ready with a wave of his ring-laden hand.
Emmrich who hears every whisper and sees every knowing glance as he moves through the nobility of Nevarra - he hears them, he sees them, but carries on without a thought knowing that the fancies of a noble as are fleeting as the fade.
Emmrich who never misses the silent plea of a recently departed - a kind word and understanding hum always on the tip of his tongue as he tends to them, easing their journey and helping them find purpose.
Emmrich who pointedly ignores that cat calls of the young men and women who line the quieter streets of Nevarra City - he's never cruel or derogatory though, even when a hand tries to reach for his sash or curls around his wrist. He slips them a few gold coins and offers up an address that would not turn them away if they wished for help.
Emmrich who somehow, despite being an incredibly intelligent and observant man, does not see the way Rook's gaze follows him every time he leaves a room - theirs eyes dark and mouth curled just a little at the corners.
Emmrich, who despite having a rich history of lovers, misses the deliberate brush of their hand against his when they pass him in the lighthouse corridors and the way they linger in his rooms, long after the others have all gone to bed.
Emmrich who doesn't realise it is Rook that is leaving freshly steeped tea on his desk in the morning, thanking Manfred as he usually would and thinks that Lucanis must have overheard him talking about his mothers hazelnut torte when it appears on the table for dinner one evening.
Emmrich who is somehow oblivious to all this even as he leans down, hand outstretched to help Rook up from they had slipped. Instead he finds himself pulled forward, limbs wheeling until he lands on his knees above them, his weight braced in his elbows either side of their head.
Emmrich who just stares as one hand curls into the lapel of his coat, the other lifting to slot neatly against the nape of his neck.
"Can't have you missing this one, Professor."
Emmrich who very much does not miss the glint in their eyes before they tug him closer, mouths crashing together. Neither does he miss the weight of their leg hooking around the backs of his thighs and the hand that moves from his lapel to slide beneath his coat, grasping at his sash.
Then all Emmrich knows is them. The slide of their tongue against the seam of his lips before they part. The warmth of the hand against his neck, fingers tangling in the ends of his hair. The pressure of the foot digging into the back of his thigh.
He does not hear or see anything else when he finally pulls back, cheeks flushed - only the smirk and amused gaze that watches him as he sucks in a sharp breath.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
You two are laying in a lounging chair together, in the comfy little nook next to your big bookcase.
His large body is stretched all the way across the chair like an oversized cat, and you are laying comfortably between his legs, with your back propped up against his front.
All you have to do is reach over and pick a book off the shelf, barely even needing to move from your position.
The hours slowly trickle away as you read quietly between his arms. Sometimes you think he might've fallen asleep, but then his arm reaches over to hand you your mug of hot chocolate whenever you make a move to grab for it.
Each time you smile, and each time he kisses your hair.
Your entire body is enveloped in this fuzzy, warm feeling that almost feels like sleepiness, but that never pulls you into a slumber.
The house is pleasantly warm, and the light from the lamp casts a yellowy glow over your little corner of paradise.
I came up with the idea of Fade Emmrich, an alternate version of Emmrich Volkarin. He came to be from Emmrichs deepest darkest desires, and lives in the Fade. Only shows up whenever Dahlia is pent up or wanting more from her real Emmrich. 💚
I also worked together with the amazing @silshinobii to start a Dragon Age fanfic and fancomic series of Fade Emmrich X Dahlia Ingellvar!!
Please take a read of their fanfics and our collabs! I will attach the link below of our fic “The Tethered”
geto who stays at jujustu tech after hidden inventory, and sometime in the future ponders the subsequent developing of your relationship~
It would definitely take Geto a few years to even allow himself to consider if he wanted to marry you. Once he did, it would take him a few more years to actually pull the trigger. So much time in fact, that Satoru of all people gets on his case about it, “Dude, if you don’t fucking marry her already-“
“Satoru please don’t start this right now.” Their daily smoke sessions turning into a weekly occurrence after that. Almost monthly until Satoru gets tired of being avoided and demands his friend tell him why he dreads the topic of marriage so. How could he explain that even though you were the only person he could see himself with, the thought of getting down on one knee made his hands clammy, his heart race, his breath all but stop?
He wasn’t Satoru. He couldn’t brush off his worries so easily. Maybe there had been a point in time when he possessed the confidence to do so. Believing himself to be strong enough to handle anything and come out on top. But that had been before he saw the world crumple around him. Before he realized that he was just man, and there were risks he didn’t have the capacity to handle. Things he couldn’t control.
Eventually, Satoru’s insistent nagging would force Geto to divulge his worries to his friend. And upon hearing them, Satoru bursts into a fit of booming laughter. It pissed Suguru off.
“Bro, you’re nervous? Seriously? It’s been 6 years, if she was gonna leave you it would’ve already happened. Trust me, your emo ass has nothing to worry about.”
For a few weeks afterward, Geto would catch himself studying every interaction between the two of you. The soft voice with which you consoled him, the way you always asked if he was alright after too long of a silence. The way your hand always seemed to drift to him. As if you needed to feel his skin on yours as undoubtedly as your lungs needed air.
The way you brushed his hair, humming whatever tune your mind had decidedly fixated on. The tenderness with which you held his face, tucking his hair behind his ears and staring at his lips as if it pained you not to be latched onto them for even a moment.
Even if he was no longer the careless over confident sorcerer you had fallen in love with all those years ago, he was still your Suguru, no matter what shape he had grown to take. And upon the realization that he could be anything and you would still be there, he went for it.
On a Sunday morning, over coffee, as you sang along to the theme song of whatever show you had playing on tv. Taking sips of your mug between each nail you painted. Bare feet splayed on the edge of the coffee table, chewing on your lower lip in concentration as you tried your best not to make a mess of your attempted pedicure.
Drunk on the casual intimacy, in awe of the effortless beauty that had him in a chokehold, the words fell from his tongue before he had the chance to actually understand what he was doing, “Marry me.”
You nearly choked on your drink. The brush in your hands just moments before clattering to the ground, leaving a stain on the floorboards he would undoubtedly chastise you for later.
“Y-you mean that?”
“Yeah.” He choked out, holding his breath so fiercely he thought he might turn purple. Hands gripping the kitchen counter so hard his knuckles became white.
The shriek that erupted from you nearly scared him half to death. Wet nails be damned, you jump up from your spot on the floor and run to him. Throwing your arms around his neck and jumping up to wrap your legs around his waist. He couldn’t help the breathless laugh that escaped him at your unabashed animation.
Bloodspeckle had lived many moons at this point in his life. Seen cats live and die, battles lost and won. He had seen many, many things. Not much surprised him anymore, or so he thought. However, it seemed the mercenaries Redstar had gained had made it their life goal to prove him wrong.
When Redstar announced the arrival of outside cats, that was when the remaining cats of Redclan had decided that the fight had gone on too long, and had left. Bloodspeckle couldnt blame them, but it did make his job a bit lonelier with only three other cats in the camp, one of which couldnt even communicate properly. Bloodspeckle found himself talking to his birds more during the period where the newcomers had joined the clan, finding more comfort in them than he did the others. He started dedicating more time to his work, spending less time with the clan. He could tell some of the cats who had known him before the others arrived were concerned, but he brushed them off, saying he was working harder to accommodate the sudden growing numbers. It was a lie. Why should he have to heal these buffoons who looked like they could barely fight a mouse, let alone a full cat? The day of the first battle was Bloodspeckle's first surprise.
Baystep and Firecrackle had volunteered to stay behind to guard the camp, while the rest had gone to the border of the two clans in a patrol. Apparently they had discussed earlier the plans of the battle, but Bloodspeckle had been paw deep in a loner's chest at the time, having been attacked by the loner and making them meet a quick end. The small group quietly split up to surround the small patch of land they sought to take, leaving Bloodspeckle with little clue on where to go. He took a look around, debating who to concern himself with first. It didnt take long, spotting the large mass of fur and what he prayed was muscle and not just more fur, and he slunked over beside the large tom. The tom, who Bloodspeckle remembered having been renamed Heavyclaw, looked down at him with a distrusting glare, and Bloodspeckle took a step to the side. He wasnt scared, he had lost the ability to fear a while back, but had enough manners to treat Heavyclaw with respect. The tom made a sound that Bloodspeckle took for one of thanks, before the quiet wait began. It took only a few heartbeats for the enemy patrol to come around, and immediately all hell broke loose. Bloodspeckle wasnt sure what to expect from the ragtag team of strays, but 'Slaughter' was definitely one way to describe it. It was Scorchleap who attacked first, picking a long lanky black tom who reminded Bloodspeckle of one of their own cats, Raccoonheart. Looking at the battlefield, he noticed various cats who looked strikingly similar, but Bloodspeckle brushed it off, having more important things to concern himself with. The battle didnt last long as he set down the herbs he had brought, and he watched as the large tom wrecked havoc on the Rushwing look alike. He swore he heard something snap as Heavyclaw slammed a paw down on the other- a rib, maybe?- before the retreat was called. The enemy patrol ran away, leaving their side victorious. Bloodspeckle quickly got to work and ran over with cobwebs and poultices, respect for the newcomers growing.
The second surprise came a moon later, while he was looking at a corpse he had 'found'. Bloodspeckle had tried to keep his work hidden from most, very aware of what reactions he would get. He had found nothing too interesting inside, much of the same stuff he had found many times, but when he looked up from his activities, he was surprised to find Baystep there, staring at the mess. At first Bloodspeckle didnt know how to react, and even began trying to find an excuse to why he was mucking around in some poor cat's body, but was rather stunned when Baystep walked over and began asking questions, unfazed by the body. "What does this little thing here do?" He had asked, leaving Bloodspeckle speechless before explaining with genuine excitement what he believed it to be. Excitement wasnt a feeling he felt very often at the time, but Baystep's interest and lack of morals had seemingly revived his passion. Not soon after did Bloodspeckle decide to give the others a chance, opening up a bit more and making time to talk to them. Bloodspeckle realized that clan life had dulled his senses as he learned more of these cats, and that there was much more outside of the clans than just patrolling and constant fighting.
The final surprise came three moons after the second. The presence of the others wasnt a foreign feeling anymore, and a welcome one at times. He had helped many with their injuries and sicknesses, and found himself enjoying his normal work once again. He was ecstatic when many had agreed to test some herbs for him, and looked forward to every visit he got. He had grown to become good friends with Baystep, and surpringly Heavyclaw. The latter often visited for any wounds he had recieved, and opened up when Bloodspeckle had begun to join in the fighting. More and more it seemed the large tom was coming in for smaller and smaller wounds, even coming in once for what Bloodspeckle suspected was a faked headache. Bloodspeckle didnt mind at all though, soon finding out Heavyclaw was much more than just a large and destructive cat. The two talked often while Bloodspeckle worked, giving Bloodspeckle some often much needed mental challenges with some topics they discussed. That morning Heavyclaw visited to check up on the medicine cat, having brought a rabbit to share. Bloodspeckle took a few bites inbetween sorting through his herbs, before Heavyclaw spoke. “You are sweet, when you want to be." That made Bloodspeckle pause for a second, processing what Heavyclaw had said. Sweet? Him? Bloodspeckle didnt vocalize his confusion and surprise, instead making inquisitive sound to push Heavyclaw to continue that train of thought so he could hop on and figure out exactly where the last stop was. "I have seen you with the others. You treat them kindly. In your own way. You play with the little Firefly, listen to tiny apprentice to amuse him. Heal Heavyclaw's and other's wounds, care for small prey." Bloodspeckle paused as he continued to list small things that had apparently added up. The garden he, Baystep, and Houndsnap had made. Giving poppy seeds to Hawkslash when he needed them, even if that happened to be when the sun was rising. Letting Scorchleap sleep in his den when the tom felt homesick after the camp changed, despite the fact the tom snored like a monster. Bloodspeckle was about to say something, about to brush Heavyclaw's examples as small signs of respect and nothing more, but paused as Heavyclaw began talking about those outside of their current clan. The mothers he had helped through birth, the endless battles and wounds that had never seemed to end. The secrets he had promised to keep a secret, even if it meant to break the code. Bloodspeckle had tried to get a word in throughout Heavyclaw's monologue, but shut his mouth with a click once Willowshine's name was mentioned.
"Loner told Heavyclaw." Heavyclaw explained, watching Bloodspeckle with a firm stare, before his voice dipped low and quiet. "Apprentice is not from clan. Heavyclaw is not dumb, I can tell. He-" Heavyclaw abruptly cut himself off, before shaking his head slightly to himself. Bloodspeckle could fill the blank in, though. "I've seen the vay Raccoonheart looks at him. Villowshine came to me ven she suspected she was expecting." Bloodspeckle said with a cold tone, warning Heavyclaw to be careful about the subject. The memory of Willowshine hurt a bit- she had been a good cat, and perhaps even a good friend at one point, and now she was just... gone. Of course, Bloodspeckle wasnt sure if Raccoonheart was entirely the father, but a part of him still wanted something, someone to blame. Heavyclaw simply nodded, and brought him out of his thoughts. "And you have not told a word to anyone, not even little apprentice. You have kept secret safe." Heavyclaw reasoned, wrapping his tail around his hind paws. "You can be sweet." He said with a tone that suggested anything Bloodspeckle could say would have no effect on his belief. Instead of fighting it though, Bloodspeckle sighed and shook his head. "Vatever you vish to believe, mein Kumpel." Bloodspeckle replied, as he let the memories go. Heavyclaw let out a sound that almost sounded like a chuckle, before the subject got changed. The two chatted a while more, before Heavyclaw had to excuse himself and leave. Bloodspeckle said goodbye as Heavyclaw ducked his way out of the entrance, and the medicine cat noted the barely touched rabbit still in middle of the den. Maybe Heavyclaw had been right, that he was growing soft and kinder to the new cats in the camp. While Bloodspeckle mightve hated and feared the idea in the past, Bloodspeckle wasnt entirely the same cat anymore. With hesitant curiousity, he welcomed the idea that these cats would remain a part of his life, even if it was for a short time. With all the surprises in his life, a few more couldnt hurt, could it?
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Inspired by this post because writing smut about Emmrich makes my day bearable and pass quicker…
<3
Professor Emmrich Volkarin, who faces down the greatest of the undead without so much as the bat of an eyelid. He has quelled demons, defeated cultists and faced down gods.
He has educated two generations of watchers, beguiled the nobility of Nevarra and achieved things that would be impossible to most.
He is brilliant. He is kind. He is the greatest of men.
He also has the most adorable blush.
It's the kind of blush that stains his cheeks the most endearing shade of red, the colour flooding down his throat and beneath the starched collar of his shirt. It matches well with the way his breath catches as he leans back in the high backed seat behind his desk - Rook can just make out the flush of colour where his collar hangs open, the top two buttons having fallen pray to their fingers.
They watch the way his head falls back from their spot between his thighs - one hand splayed across his belly, the other curled around the base of his cock.
Gone is the silver-tongued professor. Now there was just Emmrich, trousers loose around his hips, one hand twitching nervously just above their hair, a knuckle of the other held between his teeth as he finishes inside the wet heat of their mouth.
"Breathe, Emmrich," the sound of his name draws his attention back to them as they pull back with a wet pop.
The sight of them, lips slick and eyes bright, draws a broken sound from him as he sags back in his chair.
There really is something quite wonderful about him like this - cheeks somehow turning an even deeper shade of red as he finally reaches for them with shaky hands and all manner of sweet things spilling from parted lips. When Emmrich is like this, he seats them atop his lap and mutters soft thank you's into their skin.
But put a glass of Orlesian wine in the man's hand and you'll meet a very different Emmrich.
This Emmrich still blushes though it is offset by the way his mouth curls at the corners as he makes space for Rook between his thighs - he is all wandering hands and heady praise as they take him into their mouth. He guides and steers without force, announcing to the empty space around them about how well they are doing and how good they make him feel.
His hands thread into their hair, gaze warm as he watches how their cheeks hollow and lashes flutter against their cheeks.
There is no stammering shyness then, only groaned praise and adoration. When they pull back, cheeks flushed and chest heaving, he tugs them upward so that he can kiss them - uncaring of the lingering taste of himself on their mouth as hands sink beneath clothing.
Sooooooooooooo… more Emmrich/ Sable smut… which was very much prompted by my recent decent into “did you know” jokes madness.
Sable - “did you know 75-80% of women claim to have faked an orgasm?”
Emmrich - “challenge accepted”
"Emmrich?" Sable made no move to look away from her phone, thumb swiping over the screen as she listened to him move about in the kitchen.
"Yes, my love?"
"Did you know that apparently 75-80% of women claim to have faked an orgasm at some point their life?"
The clatter of crockery fell silent for a moment.
"Is that so, darling?"
"Yes."
A cupboard door closed, the quiet thud drifting through into the lounge, as she scrolled onto the next fact.
"Did you also know that 25% of those women claim to do it regularly?"
The TV played quietly in the background as Sable continued to read through the article, gaze fixed forward as she pointedly ignored the footsteps that announced his entrance into the room.
"It's really quite interesting if you think about it. Lots of them don't even tell their partners. Could you imagine that? Finding out the person you've been sleeping with has been faking having an orgasm?"
She heard him move closer, the rug muffling his progress before he drew to a stop in front of her. Letting her phone drop onto the couch beside her she looked her, head tipped to the side just a little, as she took in the raised brow and ring-laden hands that had settled on his hips.
"I'd hate to think what it would do to someone if they found out after the fact."
"I imagine it would be a rather terrible blow to said individuals pride."
"Wouldn't it just?"
"And whereby did you gather this… fascinating… information?"
"Oh! Neve sent me the article this morning."
"Did she now?”
Sable nodded as she stretched, back settling against the couch cushions as she uncrossed her legs, toes curling into the plush of the rug. "You should read it when you have the time. It really is quite interesting. There's a lot of discussion about why they fake it and why they don't say anything."
Emmrich did not miss the smirk that failed to conceal itself as she glanced down at her phone. He thought for a moment to play along with her little game.
"I actually just read a part where a women, it doesn't mention her name obviously, said that she didn't feel she could tell her husband because she was worried it affect his mental health. Apparently he's older than her and very proud. She didn't think he would take it well if she told him that he didn't always make her orgasm."
Right then.
Sable knew then that she had won as she watched him lower himself to his knees, one hand reaching for her phone, the other curling her ankle. "You'd have thought an older partner would have enough experience to notice, wouldn't you?"
An elegant finger tapped at the screen, the article disappearing in a flash, before the phone was placed carefully back beside her.
"Surely in this day and age people should be confident enough to tell their partners if something wasn't working for them."
"One would hope."
His free hand mirrored its partner, fingers tapping gently before they began to move slowly higher. Sable let herself sink back, eyes bright, as she watched him shift, settling comfortably between her legs.
"Maybe it is a pride thing then? I mean I can understand not wanting to upset your partner by telling them they aren't very good at getting you off.
His hands stilled then, gaze sharpening just a little before he continued, following the trail of freckles until he reached the skirt that sat neatly atop her thighs.
"Is that so?"
Emmrich was not a large man. Tall, yes. With a waist that made her want to weep on occasion. But his was a lean build, carefully managed muscle tucked away beneath age-softened skin and pretty clothes. That being said, his shoulders nudging her thighs further part as his hands made light work of pushing her skirt higher still had her breath catching somewhere between her chest and her throat.
"That's not to say I approve of the lying." With the barrier of her skirt removed, the fabric now bunched around her hips enough to reveal the cotton panties she had chosen that morning, she couldn't help but laugh at the small smile that crept across his face at the cartoonish paw prints that decorated them before his fingers curled around the fabric. "But I can understand not wanting to upset someone by saying I'm really sorry but you didn't make me cum… again…"
"Is that something you've struggled with on many occasions, my love?"
The lightest of tugs and she lifted her hips, just enough for him to be able to slide the rather amusing choice of underwear down.
"I'm not sure I should answer that. I don't know that it's polite to discuss my numerous sexual encounters with the man currently between my legs."
They both knew that he had been the first, and only, one to give her an orgasm.
Sable watched as her underwear was quickly tucked away into his pocket, another pair lost to him once again. "I wouldn't want to offend anyone's pride."
His arm looped under her thigh, draping it over his shoulder, before his hand curled around her hip. A quick pull had her shuffling forward a few inches atop the couch with a soft laugh.
"With how… expressive… you are, my dear-" his other hand settled atop her stomach, fingers smoothing over the wrinkled fabric there. "-they'd truly have to be a fool to fail in realising you were not being honest."
"Is that so?" Her mimicry of his earlier question earned her the pressure of his teeth against the soft give of her thigh. Sable made no effort to muffle the groan that escaped, a hand threading into his hair. "I'm sure it's not something you've ever had to worry about."
"I've never had cause to think otherwise." Emmrich pressed a kiss to the faint mark his teeth left behind before trailing higher. Each kiss was little more than a brush of his lips as his hold on her hip tightened. The hand in his hair flexed when he reached the spot where her hip met her thigh, his breath warm against her skin. He glanced up.
"Maybe they didn't want to embarrass you? I mean that's what the article-"
Whatever else she had meant to say fizzled away into a sharp inhale at the first pass of his tongue. There was no rush to his movements, each a careful exploration, as the hand on her stomach held her steady.
Emmrich thought himself a man of few vices, content with his lot. And despite her teasing he considered this one of them. A simple act that rewarded them both. He was reminded of this when the hand in his hair tugged lightly as his tongue pressed flat, moving over her in one long, slow drag, her leg jerking over his shoulder.
"What was it you were saying?" His cheek found a place to rest against her thigh, his expression carefully formed into one of calm curiosity. "Don't feel as if you need to spare my feelings, darling girl."
"You are-" It really should have occurred to her sooner that Emmrich was not one to back away from a challenge. "-the worst."
"Only if I fail."
All thoughts of trying to provoke him any further slide from her mind as he set back to his task. The hand on her stomach flexed, fingers spreading, as he chased every gasp and shudder with a focus that forced the air from her lungs. Each pass of his tongue was deliberate, sure, and it was almost shameful how quickly she felt the familiar heat coil deep in her belly.
He did not ease up when she shifted, hips lifting up from the couch cushions until his hand stopped her. The bite of her nails against his scalp was rewarded with a muffled laugh and raised brow when he dared to glance up, lips slick and gaze warm.
"If you stop now, I swear-"
"As long as I'm not leaving your needs unmet, my love."
Because I just wanted to write something small whilst I figure out how to torture people with the next chapter of Need vs Want...
Nothing but soft, maybe a teeny tiny bit angsty, fluff and Emmrich being sentimental <3
As a child, all knobbly knees and wide eyes, his mother would call him “Mien Schatz” – her darling, her little treasure, murmured softly as she brushed the tears from his cheeks after he had fallen or when he presented her with yet another messily gathered offering of flowers from their tiny garden. It was comforting, familiar – a reminder of her love as she tucked him into her arms and made every woe better in the way only a mother’s kiss could.
His father would say “my boy” – a claim of ownership that had encouraged him to stand taller, shoulders back, and face the world as a son wanting to be worthy of such a title. It carried a weight he had been glad to bear, even when he stood no higher than his fathers belt. It had weighed just as heavy, choked out between wet breaths and the creak of wood when he had refused to leave their side, even as their home crumbled down around them.
Under the care of the Mourn Watch he had grown used to being addressed as the young Master Volkarin, a formality that had felt strange as a child - to be spoken of in such a formal manner by such esteemed individuals when he had done little other than display a talent for speaking with the deceased. Master Volkarin shifted into Watcher Volkarin as he grew older, his talents growing with him - a sign of respect, one befitting his hard work and dedication.
Johanna had called him any number of things, though few of them involved his name. Despite the illusion of friendship they maintained over the years, she was ever sharp and with little to waste in the way of emotion or compassion. Fool, dimwit, coward, just to name a few - they would fall from her tongue like a knife to a chopping block, each as deliberate as they were cruel, in a way only she could. Though there had been a time, a few short months where he had rather foolishly looking back, hoped that he had broken through the walls that she had built around herself only to be met with accusations of neediness and wilful idiocy - he had stopped asking her to use his name then.
Middle age brought with it new responsibilities and his role as an educator - teaching each new wave of watchers had filled him with a sense purpose as he watched them grow, watch them step out and become their best selves. It also meant that he had been gifted a new title - that of Professor. It rang of distinction, of prowess and success, as yet another flood of wide-eyed necromancers entered his lecture hall. They would call it out across the hum of conversation to draw his attention, each syllable clear and precise. Some would mutter it in disdain when he corrected form or posture - a snark filled comment they believed he was blind to as he moved onto the next student. Others would let the word curl around their tongues as they batted eyelashes and puffed up their chests seeking favour and his… personal attention - it would leave a bitter taste in his mouth, the vain attempts at seduction, a mockery to the loneliness that had never quite left despite the years that had passed. Those he would ignore.
The Crow addressed him as Mortalitasi, which whilst technically correct rang hollow - an acknowledgement of his position and work with no reflection of his being. That was more palatable however than being called Death Mage as their new dragon hunter had deemed fit - though even that was better than some of their other less acceptable suggestions.
Now Rook. Rook had called him Professor Volkarin upon their first meeting - gaze perceptive as they took in his worth and assessed his skills all whilst they travelled through the Necropolis. It was said respectfully, without the nervous fluttering of the Veil Jumper who still could not bring herself to use his given name as he had requested, and without a trace of mockery. It took some time, evenings spent walking the Memorial Gardens and sitting together in his rooms, before Rook dropped the honorific and began to call him simply Emmrich.
The sound of his name quickly became one he adored when they spoke it aloud. First said with the grace of a colleague who appreciated his work and advice, then later with a warmth that spoke of potential. That potential grew, met with hands that brushed when they passed each other in the corridors of the Lighthouse and glances that spoke of… more.
Now he wished only to hear it from them. A quiet thanks shared over tea, gentle greetings in the morning and soft goodbyes at night. He longed for it. Ached for it in a way that he had long past given up hope for. To hear his name spoken with need, and want, and should he be foolish enough to imagine, love.
"Emmrich-"
Whispered between hurried kisses and clasped hands in a moment of snatched solitude in the depths of an alley as they scurried across Dock Town.
"Emmrich-"
Called out across the sandy beaches of Rivain as they fought undead pirates and Aantam before seeking out the cool waters to soothe their sun-burnt skin.
"Emmrich-"
A quiet utterance of thanks as he offered a hand from across a ledge, the valleys of the forest below an ever daunting threat to their determined leader.
"Emmrich-"
But this was his favourite sound. His name spilling from their lips as they sank into the sheets of his bed, hidden away from the rest of the world - his name spoken with the need he had dreamed of for so long, repeated again and again between airy sighs as hands slipped beneath clothing and kisses grew deeper. It curled around him, as comforting as his mothers quiet love and as encouraging as his fathers belief - it spoke to him in a way that brought out the tears he no longer tried to hide, each tiny drop a reminder of where he was and who was there with him.
"I love you, Emmrich-"
If he were a weaker man he would brush it away, tuck the desperation beneath his years of wasted titles and draw out other sounds from them - but he wanted nothing more than to keep them there with him, away from everything that threatened their very lives, and have them say it until their voice cracked.