Chapter Text
Lucanis has heard the name ‘Rook’ before. They’ve never personally met, but he knows enough about her that he immediately worries that it might come off the wrong way if he lets on.
It’s not for any kind of nefarious reason — although he could be forgiven for having any kind of intel on a Crow from a different house, stranger or not. If anything, it’s actually a good thing, something that works in her favor. Had any other unfamiliar face barged into The Ossuary to rescue him, citing some kind conspiracy involving ancient elven gods as Rook had, Lucanis would be assuredly suspicious. It’s one thing to break in to The Ossuary and survive long enough to reach him, but it’s another to do it because you swear up and down that the elven gods are causing a new blight and that the Veil is going to collapse.
But, Lucanis knew her name. He knew she was a De Riva, and although being Fereldan by birth, she considers herself as Antivan as any other Crow, including Viago, who she all but grew up with once she was adopted in. Viago even calls her his ‘cousin,’ something that left Lucanis confused when an elf that looks absolutely nothing like the Fifth Talon showed up — until he remembered that it’s no more than a term of affection.
Viago mentioned Rook often — but he’d completely failed to mention how short she is.
She’s not quite short enough to pass for a dwarf, but she must be the smallest elf he’s ever seen, and as they make their way through the Ossuary and Lucanis wonders to himself if she might be half dwarven, maybe, she flickers her eyes over to him and catches his gaze purposefully. “You good?” she asks.
“Yes,” Lucanis says quickly, blinking. He didn’t realize he’d been staring. Has he been staring? No. He hasn’t. Rook’s just a Crow, who, apparently, shares her cousin’s aptitude for observation. “Just thinking,” he lies. “This is a lot for me to take in.”
“Ah, okay.” He watches her nod and for a moment he thinks he might have gotten away with it. Or, more likely, Rook has decided to drop it. But then she offers him a smile, one that he’s not sure if he should describe as ‘mischievous’ or ‘sinister,’ and Lucanis knows he’s been got. “Is one of the things you’re taking in that I’m short for an elf?” Her friend — another elf with the biggest hair he thinks he’s ever seen outside of Orlais — does a poor job at attempting to stifle a laugh at this. “It’s alright,” Rook finally and mercifully assures him after a few awkward seconds that feel much longer to him, her tone dismissive in a way that completely disarms him. It’s like she’s toying with him already. They’ve literally just met. “I get it a lot. You’re fine.”
He opens his mouth to apologize, but she swings around and fires a bolt of thick, dark green magic at a Venetori that’s tried to sneak up on them before Lucanis is able to find the word ‘sorry’ in his brain. Spite laughs at him.
“You’re Fereldan, yes?” he asks suddenly as they both go about their business in the kitchen, Lucanis preparing coffee, Rook organizing the last of the cheeses for the spread she’s assembled. She looks up from her plate, eyes a little wide for a moment in surprise before they shift into a squint.
“How’d you know that?” She asks.
He points to her plate, although it’s so casual that it’s more of a wave than anything. “Eluvians that can take you to any market in Thedas and you only pick the ripened cheeses,” he observes aloud. “No dried meats, either, only roast.” He pauses and thins his eyes, making a show of leaning down and peering at the plate. “And not a single olive.” He clicks his tongue in disappointment before flicking his gaze up to meet hers. “Are you sure you were raised Antivan?”
“Long enough to know that the Antaam have been taking all the olives worth buying.” She reaches down and picks up a piece of the shredded mutton from the plate, popping it into her mouth, chewing and watching Lucanis pointedly as he stands back upright. Her expression remains flat. Lucanis grins. They’re playing around, of course — this isn’t the first time he and her have verbally sparred like this as an act of endearment — but Lucanis still likes it when he gets one over on her like this. “So, I’ve put together a Fereldan meal,” she eventually says as she shrugs. “Doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I just felt like Fereldan food today. I’m still feeling that fall I took yesterday,” she explains, referring to an incident where she’d taken a blast of magic from a Tevinter mage and been thrown off a platform the day before. “And they say that Fereldan pickled eggs can fix up just about anything.”
Rook smiles when Lucanis doesn’t respond immediately, crossing her arms with a confidence in her posture that tells Lucanis she’s sure she has a winning argument. It’s all moot, of course, entirely redundant. He knows she’s Fereldan, and she knows that he knows she’s Fereldan. But it’s not about that. It’s about the dance, the exchange, the wordplay. And Lucanis can’t really pin why, but there’s a little thrill to it that he finds almost addictive.
“Say catacombs.”
Rook blinks in surprise at this once it registers. “What?”
“Say catacombs,” Lucanis repeats.
“Why—“
“Just humor me.”
She raises an eyebrow, hesitating for a moment, but she obliges him — which he knew, deep down, she would. She always seems to. “Catacombs.”
“There,” he exclaims with a grin, lifting his mug towards her as a gesture. “Catacooms,” he repeats, imitating her pronunciation, the way she elongates the ‘oomb’ in the way that only a Fereldan would. “Your accent is showing.”
Rook does her best to keep a straight face, to hold her unimpressed air, but it’s futile. After a moment of perseverance, she cracks, laughing out loud and shaking her head as he joins her. “In my defense,” she adds, “I barely remember the place. Just the food, really.”
“You were young when you got to Antiva, no?” He asks. “Viago told me, but he never mentioned how young.”
She raises her eyebrows at this, although she doesn’t seem displeased. “Wasn’t aware Viago could be such a gossip.”
“I wouldn’t say it was gossiping,” Lucanis corrects. “He just talked about you. A lot.” He watches her expression shift again, a hint of anticipation in her eyes, unease apparent in the way she purses her lips together. “Good things, though, don’t worry. He…” he trails off, searching for the words. “Viago thinks very highly of you.”
Rook’s response catches him off guard a little bit. She doesn’t make a joke or bat back by gently making fun of Lucanis. Instead, she smiles, and when her eyes drop downwards? He realizes it’s a genuine one. It’s not as though Rook’s allergic to smiling or stoic or anything, but she’s… she can be a little cynical at times, for lack of a better term, especially when it’s the two of them. But this kind of smile? It’s different. Soft. Real. A sign that she’s dropped her guard, if not only for a moment.
“I was about six,” she finally says after a moment. “My parents were merchants. Or, well my father was,” Rook explains. “He had some noble family over in Kirkwall, close enough to help him secure trade routes into Ferelden, but not close enough that we got titles. My mother was a city elf,” she says with a slight laugh, reaching up and tapping at the tip of her ear. “So, they got married and then—“
“Wait,” he interrupts, raising a palm apologetically. “I thought they didn’t allow that in Ferelden.”
“Allow what?”
“Elves marrying… anyone who isn’t an elf,” he says with a shrug. “You know, because of the Chantry.”
Rook shrugs as she reaches down and tears a bit of cheese from a larger slice of it. “Usually. But my father had a lot of money at the time and I’m told he was very generous with the Chantry…” She locks eyes with him and pops the piece in her mouth, giving Lucanis a knowing smile.
“Ah, say no more.”
She pauses briefly to chew and swallow before continuing. “I’m not sure when I showed signs of being a mage, but my father decided to send me away to stay with some distant family in Antiva who agreed to take me in. The fifth blight had come and gone and killed the business by then, but I guess he had some kind of money left because he could afford to hire a Crow to smuggle me out of Ferelden.”
Lucanis nods, lifting his mug upwards, ready to take another sip of his coffee. “He must have — that kind of job doesn’t come cheap. Especially after we decided to step away from Ferelden.” He drinks, watching as she continues to pick at her food. “But you’re a Crow, so I’m assuming that didn’t work out.”
“The way I’m told the story, we got to Treviso and whoever I was meant to be handed off to was dead,” she says frankly. “The Crows sent word back to my parents to ask what they wanted them to do with me and…” She throws her hands up. “Never heard back.”
He stares at her, a little taken aback by how casually she’s treating the topic, even though it’s something he should be used to by now. “So… they are…”
“Dead?” She asks with shrug. “Maybe. Or they just abandoned me. Not like the prospects for a half-elf mage are great in Ferelden.” Rook offers him a gentle, soft smile, almost if to seem apologetic that the ending of the story was so grim. “Suppose that’s why the Crows decided to take me in. Not that it’s a guarantee — you know what training’s like,” she adds with a nod. “But it was a fighting chance.”
He returns her smile, even though he feels a little off for not having considered that. He’s heard what they do to mages in the south, or at least what they would have done back when she was a child, anyway. He can’t picture Rook locked up in a tower, although that might just be a symptom of never having seen her during a moment of peace. She’s almost in constant action, constantly fighting, constantly working. It makes this quiet moment in her presence seem like a luxury.
“And look at you now,” he finally says, his voice a little quieter than before. “A fully fledged Crow and leading the fight against the gods.” He pauses. “No wonder Viago’s so proud of you.”
Her eyebrows shoot up and her smile blossoms, spreading out into something bright, something honest. “Proud?” She repeats. “Did he really say that?”
“He doesn’t need to.”
Her eyes drop back down to the table, still beaming, a bashfulness to it that Lucanis never would have expected to see on Rook’s face. If he didn’t know better, he might even say her cheeks look a little pinker than usual.
“Rook?” He asks. She looks back up at him, humming in acknowledgment. “Can I ask a question? About your parents, I mean.”
“Go ahead. Can’t promise I can answer, though. I only really remember so much after all this time.”
It’s his turn to grin, unable to stop himself, knowing what he’s about to say. “Your mother was an elf, yes?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Was your father dwarvish?”
For a split second, she frowns, her eyebrows coming together in confusion. But then it clicks, and her expression shifts into outrage — faux outrage, but outrage nonetheless.
She raises her hand and flicks her fingers towards him, shooting a few sparks at him; not enough to hurt him or even start a fire, but enough to send the message and prompt him to jump back.
Still, though, she laughs as she does it. Lucanis could get used to that.
Lucanis had initially felt a twinge of doubt as he tried to help the Crows, pull people from the rubble, get people to safety and away from the dragon’s path. But when Rook arrived, the Grey Warden in tow, he knew his doubts were no more than a manifestation of his own anxiety. She chose Treviso without hesitation or question, and Lucanis feels like a fool for even humoring the possibility that she may have done otherwise.
Rook has never been a coward by any means — the opposite, actually. Sometimes he wishes she’d be a little more careful — but her efforts against the dragon could only be described as ‘valiant.’ Although, the way she persisted even after they realized there was likely no winning teetered on ‘suicidal.’ It was when the dragon retreated, fleeing away, injured but not dead that it happened, that he watched her take her staff from her back and try to hit it with whatever magic she could muster. Davrin had to grab her and force her to stop, order her to let it go, and realizing he was right, she obliged him, looking around her to really take in that not only was Treviso in flames, but she wouldn’t get retribution for it.
She was bleeding from her face, and she bent over at the waist, clutching at her mid-section. The dragon had managed to catch her with its tail earlier, throwing her across the courtyard and into one of its walls. Broken rib, if he had to guess. She’d thrown her staff to the ground and cried out in frustration. She was grieving for her city, but she was also enraged.
And that was when it clicked for Lucanis. That was when he realized he wanted her.
Or, rather, Spite announced it to him in a full-volume shriek that Lucanis was thankful no one else could hear — but the demon was right, nonetheless, as ill-advised as feeling that way may be.
They rushed to Minrathous, and not only was Rook met with undue hostility, but she was sent away, told to leave, as though this was her fault. As though she could be blamed for choosing her home — her family — over a city that she had no connection to. As though Neve would have chosen Treviso over Minrathous had she been in Rook’s position.
Never was hurting, of course, but he’d expected more of her. They’d gotten along, but this was unfair, which was a far more civil way of putting it than what Spite would have had him say. Instead, he stood and watched as Neve and some nobody from the Shadow Dragons unloaded on Rook, although the nobody was far more direct in his ire compared to Neve’s fluent use of passive aggression. It was all the same to Rook, though. He could tell. Injured and bleeding, she stood there and took it. She didn’t need to. She shouldn’t have. It was hurting her more than the broken rib.
If she’d told them where to shove their city, Lucanis would have backed her up. If anything, Spite had wanted nothing more.
The whole ordeal shook him, but he could tell it shook Rook more, watching her carefully on their way back to the Lighthouse. He knows her well enough by now to spot her tells, but even so, she can’t do what she needs to, she can’t stew on it or tell Neve to stay in Minrathous for good, or even defend herself. She’s neck deep in politics. He doesn’t envy her. He was never good at politics. In fact, he’d found himself a little lost on what to say or do at all, even to try and comfort her, a problem Davrin didn’t seem to have. As they’d stepped back through the Eluvian into the Lighthouse, the Grey Warden had put his hand on her shoulder, given it a squeeze, held her gaze and said “no one else could have done what you did today, Rook. You should be proud.” It got a smile out of her, a little one that didn’t match her eyes, but a smile nonetheless.
And that’s how he finds himself pacing about his room, trying to shut Spite up, trying to ignore how bothered he is by it all, the burning feeling in his chest that’s simmering away. Spite thinks it’s jealousy.
“Go see her!” The demon demands for what seems like the hundredth time. “Go right now! I want to see her! You want to see her—“
“I’ve told you,” Lucanis interrupts. “Once I’ve calmed down. I need time.”
“Time?!” Spite shouts. “It will be different then! No, go and see Rook, go and see her right now!”
“She’ll be fine,” he insists. “She’s probably resting. I don’t want to interrupt.”
Spite flashes across the room, standing directly beside Lucanis. “She will be fine?” he hisses. “No. If you do not do it, the Grey Warden will go see her. Then she will be fine.”
Lucanis frowns. “What?”
“He knows what to say to her! He makes her smile and laugh! He smells good, like leather and moss! He isn’t afraid to look at her — looks at her all the time! Don’t like it!”
…Does Davrin do that? Does he ‘look’ at Rook enough for Spite to pick up on it? Lucanis hasn’t noticed, he just figured that Davrin was attentive to what was happening around him, as a Grey Warden should, really. “I think you’re over-thinking this.”
“No!” Spite actually stomps his foot at this. “You aren’t thinking about it enough! You like her, she makes you happy! Blood pumps faster, don’t feel like she’ll put a knife in your back!”
“The way you’re going on about this? I think you might be interested in her, Spite.”
“Very interested!” The demon chirps into his ear, almost excitedly. “I like Rook! She listens to me, and you listen to her, so she gets you to listen to me!” He pauses. “And she throws people around with magic! I like that! It’s funny!”
“Spite, you—“
“Need her!” he interrupts. “Need her to do what you promised! Need her for our deal!” Lucanis is about to question that, but Spite’s all too happy to explain. “Powerful! Picks up Antaam, cuts them open! Stronger and stronger every day! Both of you, stronger together! Kill for her, she kills for you!” Spite pauses again, watching Lucanis, waiting for a reaction — and when he doesn’t get it, he scowls, his voice dropping into a growl as he phases back from Lucanis, facing him from a few steps away. “She’s pretty,” he adds, his volume lower, sinister. “Delicate. Small. Trinket you can keep in your pocket. Pretty laugh, pretty eyes.”
“That’s not—“
“Makes you laugh. Mean to you, mean to her, but doesn’t hurt. Feels nice. Sweet. Blood gets hot. You like it. Reminds you of Viago. You liked that about Viago.”
“…That’s…” he trails off. “That’s not…”
“Rook wouldn’t laugh it off if you gave her a knife,” he hisses. “Rook would understand. Rook would love it. Smile. Tip of her ears turn pink.”
Lucanis closes his eyes and sighs. Her ears do do that, don’t they? He’s noticed it a few times— okay, he always notices the way the tips of her ears blush whenever she’s flustered or embarrassed. How could he not notice? It’s downright distracting.
…They were blushed when Davrin said that stuff to her earlier, weren’t they? Mierda.
But what’s he meant to do about it? There’s a million reasons to ignore this, to bury it and wait until it cools off and goes away. They’re familiar, have a bit of a read on each other, but whatever Lucanis is feeling at the moment is just lingering adrenaline and anything that’s there is just sexual tension. They just fought a fucking dragon, of course he’s on edge and looking to find more risks to satisfy the hunger that the rush has left over.
And that’s without going into all the other reasons; Rook is too busy for this, she has the weight of Thedas on her shoulders and an elven god in her head, and Lucanis has a Spite demon inside of him and that is not an extra thing she needs to worry about right now. Oh, and they’re both Crows, which means even the most casual of relationships would be a mess of politics and constant threat should either of them piss anyone off — which they both do frequently.
But Spite’s just that: spite. And he’s not going to let this go until Lucanis at least agrees to the bare minimum. “Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll go talk to her.” He raises a hand, pointing to Spite, eyebrows raised. “Talk. That’s it.”
And just like that, Spite’s gone. Good. Means he’s satisfied.
Lucanis closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before starting the walk to Rook’s room. It’s quiet, the courtyard sunny as always, everyone long in bed, getting what rest they can after such an intense day. Maybe Rook will be asleep, too. She has trouble sleeping, usually — the late hours are when they tend to catch up with each other for this reason — but she must be exhausted, surely.
Arriving at the door of her room, he hesitates, taking a second to listen in case someone else is inside. Nothing. Still, though, he told Spite he would, and there’ll be hell to pay if he backs out and doesn’t at least try. He knocks on the door, gently, so gently that there’s a possibility she might not even hear. “Rook?” He asks, his voice hushed above a whisper. “Are you awake?”
He gives it a second, deciding that if he doesn’t hear something, he won’t knock a second time and will retreat, satisfied that she’s gone to bed. Or, well, the couch she uses as a bed, anyway. But then he hears footsteps — her footsteps — and his stomach drops. He’s nervous, all of a sudden. Why is he nervous? He’s just here to talk, just here to see how she’s doing after everything that’s happened. But in this short window of time, he can feel the heat of his nervousness turn up, hotter and hotter in his chest, until—
The door opens. Rook stands there, her eyes red and a little swollen, her lips the same, and suddenly Lucanis finds it incredibly difficult to pull his eyes away from them. She’s wearing her bedclothes — bedclothes is a strong word, actually. It’s clearly an old shirt, something far too big for her that looks more like a dress on her but still has a neckline that drops far lower than is appropriate, given the size of it on her.
“Is everything alright?” She finally asks, speaking softer than usual.
The ‘nervousness’ is a full return of adrenaline now, roaring through his ears with each beat of his heart, making his palms itch and feel hot and cold at the same time. “I just wanted to—“ he freezes when he finally rips his gaze away from her lips to look her in the eye and it clicks. “…Check on you.”
She’s looking at him the way he’s looking at her.
They stand there in silence for what must be far, far too long to be a normal amount of time. It’s Lucanis who breaks the silence first, though, something in him pushing him, something other than Spite, something inside him that’s always been there and is part of his being. “Are you sure?” He asks her. They both know what he’s talking about. It’s as though they’ve had a full discussion without needing to say a single word. Anyone else and that would frighten him. Any other mage and he’d accuse them of bewitching him. Not Rook, though. Not only would she never do that to him, but she wouldn’t need to. He sees that now.
She reaches her arm out and gently takes his hand, her grip on it loose, not to force but to guide should he want that. “I’m sure.” It’s all he needs, following her signal, stepping into her room, watching her silently as she closes and locks the door behind her.
This wasn’t the way he expected his evening to go, especially after everything that’s happened. They could have both died, today.
They could have died.
The combination of that thought and seeing Rook in the state she is, out of her armor and soft-gear and wearing something not just light but something that’s vulnerable activates something in him. They could have died. She could have died. He could have lost her before they even got started, and it won’t be the last time they come face to face with death like that. As she turns from the lock to face him, Lucanis reaches out and grabs her by the shoulders, his hold firm, as though she might succumb to the threat of slipping through his fingers as she could have today. He pulls her towards him and kisses her as her chest collides with his. For a split moment he worries he’s too rough, but her fingers reach up and grip at the fabric of his shirt as though she’s just as frightened he might fade away in front of her, and deciding that they’re nowhere near close enough, he reaches down and grabs the back of her thighs, hoisting her up and holding her against him, her legs wrapping around him as he carries her to the nearest surface he can find.
He places her down on a the low leveled bookshelf that’s against the back of her couch, something falling from the top of it to the floor as it knocks. Whatever, time for that later, her fingers are working on the buttons of his vest and as his hands glide up her thighs and under the hem of her shirt, he realizes she’s completely naked underneath it — which drops his brain capacity to something purely instinctual. He’d never expected her to want this, not so quickly, anyway. Not with him and all his baggage. And yet, here he is, only daring to pull away from her long enough to shrug his vest off and unceremoniously pull his shirt over his head.
As he does this, he spots the tips of her ears. They’re the most blushed he’s ever seen them. Maybe flushed is a better word. He wants to kiss them. Elves like that, don’t they? He heard it was an erogenous zone…
“This is probably a bad idea,” she finally says, her voice breathy as she wiggles about, pulling on the fabric of the shirt she’s wearing in order to clear whatever’s underneath her, beaming at him, her cheeks just as flushed as her ears.
“It is,” he admits, watching her with the same intensity he’d watch a target as she crosses her arms over each other and grabs at the hem of her shirt, leaving him in anticipation of something he’s a little worried he’s going to completely lose himself in. Would that be so bad, though? Just this once? After everything they’ve been through, everything they’ve done? They both need this. He needs this right now. And Rook? Rook wouldn’t even be humoring him if she didn’t feel at least similar. “It’s a terrible idea.” He closes the space between them again, leaning down and kissing her, his hand cupping her jawline, his thumb grazing over her cheek. “The Talons would have our asses.” She laughs at this, a quiet one. It’s only half a joke, really. Viago wouldn’t care, might give Lucanis a talking to about treating his ‘cousin’ properly (which would feel more awkward on Lucanis’ part than anything) but would otherwise probably welcome it, if not just the opportunity to make fun of him more. Catarina would be an entirely different story. Fraternizing with another Crow from another family while on a contract?
Rook lifts her shirt over her head and he loses his train of thought.
“But?” She asks, grinning, absolutely clocking where his mind has gone — which is to a complete stop.
It takes him a second to remember how to talk. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t pictured it, but she’s… this is a trap, surely. A horde of the De Rivas are about to jump out of the shadows, give him their regards, and drive 25 blades through his back. And, honestly? If that’s how it happens? No complaints. She’s beautiful. Gorgeous. Underneath the thick leathers of her gear has been a body that reminds him of one of those Orleasian paintings that Trella hides behind a curtain and tells the Chantry she doesn’t have. He knew she’d be beautiful, of course she would… but he’d never imagined someone as deadly as Rook could be so… soft.
“But…” he finally forces himself to say after swallowing his own saliva. “We’re Crows…” he lets his palms glide down her sides, taking him how warm her skin is, the curve of her hips, how soft she is to the touch. “Sometimes a bad idea is better.” She tilts her head up to kiss him, but he pulls his head back ever so slightly. “Rook?” he asks.
“Yes?”
“Are you sure about this?”
Her eyes harden just a little, just enough to give a twinge of a frown, and Lucanis thinks he’s blown it. Instead of pulling away and asking him to leave, though, she brings her hands to his chest, resting her palms against it, her fingers splaying open before she slides them up to his shoulders, continuing until she has a gentle hold at the back of his neck. Her eyes soften again, but this time, they almost seem a little… sad. “I had to make one of the worst decisions I’ve ever had to make in my entire life today,” she says quietly, enough so that he can hear a little tremble in her voice. “I had to play god for a second there. I don’t like it.” Her fingertips graze up into the hair at the nape of his neck. “I just want to feel mortal again. I just…” She swallows audibly, her eyes dropping for a moment. “I just want to feel something, anything but this.” Rook’s eyes meet his again. “Please?”
He kisses her so hard and suddenly that it very well could bruise her lips, Rook inhaling sharply, her eyes widening in surprise before they flutter shut. He grips her waist, dipping his head down to kiss along her jaw, then her neck, then over her collarbone until he’s kissing between her breasts — and also kisses each breast, too, he’s still a man and hers are great. The way she sighs and wriggles for him is all he can seem to care about right now. He’s heard her scream and cry and curse and laugh, but these sounds are the only things on his mind right now and he’s going to do everything in his power to drag more from her.
He works his way down to her navel, Rook arching her back and whining his name, and if she does that again he just might take her right here on these shelves—
Rook squeals. She falls out of his grip, topping backwards, over the back of the couch, and although the couch does catch her at first and stop the worst of the impact, the momentum of the fall causes her to roll off it before she can stop herself, landing her on the floor, on her back.
There’s a silence for a split moment while they both process what just happened, their worked up brains needing a second to catch up. His eyes widen and he quickly rounds the side of the couch, rushing to make sure she’s okay. “Rook!?” He asks. “Mierda, are you—“
Rook, on the floor in front of the couch, bursts into laugher. Real, genuine laughter. In fact, she’s giggling. Rook is a woman who laughs a lot for a woman in her current circumstances, but Lucanis has never heard her laugh like this before. She lifts her head up at him, beaming, and he can see her eyes starting to sheen over with tears, her whole body shaking as she laughs. This is what her true self is like — naked, on the floor, giggling to the point of tears over something going wrong at the worst possible time. Somehow, this feels decidedly more intimate than anything else they’ve done tonight, or any of the things they do once she’s pulled herself together and caught her breath and collected herself back up onto the couch.
Lucanis was right. It’s everything they both need. It’s cathartic. It’s gentle and loving one moment, Rook on his lap, taking what she needs from him as he drowns her with kisses and her breath seems to sing — and then she digs her nails into his back until he growls and flips her over until she’s bent over the arm-rest. He fucks her relentlessly, pulling her hair and forcing her back to arch even further until the only sounds she can make are whines and moans and he’s sure she’s forgotten her own name — and then she’s under him, face to face, her legs wrapped around him and their foreheads pressed together and it doesn’t matter if she’s forgotten her own name or not because the only name to pass her lips is his as she comes for him. Despite his efforts to commit it to memory, it still feels like a blur, an unfairly impermanent moment by the nature of how all consuming it is to be in. The air around her tingles as she rides out her release. Lucanis swears it’s electricity. It probably is. She’s a mage, after all. He follows soon after, Rook squeezing her legs around him and telling him she wants him inside. He might usually have qualms about that, but she is, after all, a Crow — and good luck finding a woman in their way of life who hasn’t taken all precautions necessary to prevent accidentally carrying on a target’s bloodline. There’s something about it that overwhelms him mentally, somehow makes this better, something animalistic and primal he’d usually run from. A claim. A mark. Sounds more like Spite than him to value that, but what has this encounter been if not a practice in honestly.
The events of today — both in and outside of her room — seem to finally catch up with her after this, her body finally relenting, loose and heavy and tired, her legs shaky as she gets up for a moment to grab her blankets from nearby. “You don’t have to hang around if you don’t want to,” she offers quietly as she gets back on the couch, draping her blanket over her and eying him, unsure if she should provide him with a share of it as well.
“And if I wanted to?” He asks without thinking.
Rook smiles (although her fatigue is evident now,) shifting on the couch to scoot up beside him, draping the blanket over them both as she rests her head against his chest and he brings his arm around her. “This is nice,” she finally says, so quiet that it’s nearly a whisper.
“It is. Too nice for me.” He smiles as he says this, opening his mouth to speak again, but when he looks down he notices she’s already asleep. She’s wrecked.
Lucanis isn’t too far behind her, but as he starts to nod off, he sees him — in the corner of his vision, but nonetheless, he sees him.
Mierda — what is he supposed to do about Spite?
There’s a chance that Spite will behave himself, of course. Spite likes Rook, and he’s the one who pushed Lucanis into coming here to talk to her, after all. And, to be fair, the demon had behaved himself the whole time (which had, admittedly, been a fear in the back of his mind.)
But that was this time. What about next time?
What if he drifts off tonight and Spite—
He frowns. Not that Lucanis thinks Spite would do anything untoward… but Spite really likes Rook, and this is the first time Lucanis has done that since Spite came along, and what if it gives him ideas and what if Rook’s into that? Not that she’s not allowed to, of course. Him and Rook aren’t exclusive. No, they’re not even… this was just… Lucanis would like it if it was more than…
Lucanis closes his eyes and takes a long, measured breath. It can’t be more than that, and if not just for the million other reasons, because a damaged partner isn’t what Rook needs. She needs someone who can support her and isn’t too busy trying to work out their own issues. Someone who has the confidence to say the things she needs to hear when she needs to hear them. Someone who doesn’t need a demon to bully him into checking on her after a hard day.
Someone who can fall asleep with her without fear of becoming possessed by a demon.
With the care and quiet of a trained assassin, Lucanis manages to make his way out from Rook’s exhausted person, get dressed, and leave her room, all without disturbing her. She just needed to feel something else tonight. Anything else would complicate things, which she can’t afford.
And that’s how it stays. Uncomplicated.
At least until they visit Nevarra.