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Daeira was giving him one of her sunshine smiles, all grey eyes glimmering and wild cinnamon red curls and dimple on her freckled cheeks.
She’d mentioned to Taash that she hadn’t had freckles until she left the Necropolis with Varric and Harding. “I’d never seen the sky before,” she admitted, scrunching her nose. “So many stars!”
Taash had then turned to a fussy parent and insisted on the elf wearing a headscarf and sun lotion.
Lucanis had needed to rein in Spite from snapping Taash’s good horn and staking the Qunari. Spite liked the freckles, but Daeira didn’t need sunburn. It was for Daeira’s health, he told the demon.
Also, she would be upset if they hurt Taash. She had been firm in wanting to trust him, opening the Lighthouse and defending him against whispers and suspicion. He couldn't do anything to risk that.
After all, a man held by the Venatori for three years was not a man to be trusted. Controlled by blood magic, forced to kill, forced to be their tool…
He tore his attention from the past to the woman in front of him. “Spite feels the difference already, Rook.”
She nodded, breath no longer steaming in the air. “It’s… lighter but not- like a fluffy blanket when it’s too cold. I think it nudged the more malign spirits further into the Fade. Barred the door.”
He huffed a laugh. “Rook. We cleared the hall of despair demons. They make everything cold. Your ears are red. Emmrich was trying to use his coat as a blanket. My hands are so cold I’m amazed I could sheathe my knives.”
Daeira took a pair of hasty steps towards him, before stopping herself, hands up. “Do you need me to do a warming spell, Lucanis?”
He rolled his shoulders, taking stock. “How likely are we to run into more trouble?”
She worried at her lush lower lip, giving him a thoughtful answer instead of the easy one. “The Venatori are dead, the Sunken Star has been running for a month, and the candles… I think we should be fine heading back. And a simple warming spell won’t make a difference to me, but it might to you.”
Spite purred at the concern in her voice. Say yes. Let our. pretty little songbird help us.
“Fine,” he said, the pretend exasperation undercut by the soft expression she earned.
Daeira was always careful before using magic on him. Always ensured she had permission. And even better, she made it a sign of respect rather than pity or concern.
“Now that the Vaults of the Beloved are cleared, Lady Myrna can find Watchers to recite the Vows,” Daeira explained after warmth was returned to his fingers. “The bloody Venatori and this missing section of the Necropolis wreaked havoc on all the wards and security of the Necropolis, and we can’t afford for the idiots above to think the Watchers aren’t in control.”
“They’ll send in politicians?” Lucanis asked, crossing his arms and thinking of Ivenci.
Spite’s latest suggestion on how to deal with them involved hanging them by their coat in the Market as a message. Lucanis had to object- that might ruin the ambiance.
Besides, the Butcher’s skull would be a better message. Clean and enduring- Daeira had mentioned that skeletons were more hygienic as well as dignified than rotting corpses.
“Worse,” Daeira’s face was troubled, and he forced down the reflexive growl. “The Grand Magi wants to reinstate Templars in Nevarra. Cumberland has some, since they remained a Circle and not a College, but they never enter the Necropolis, by royal command. We’re not a formal Circle, she has no authority, but…”
“You have a Vorgoth, you don’t need a pack of lyrium addled tyrants trying to control you?” Lucanis finished, enjoying the flash of petty satisfaction in her eyes. She spent so much of her time being patient and kind, if brash, and he and Spite both benefited directly from that.
But those moments where she showed that she had claws, she just carefully chose when to use them? They made Lucanis feel like he drunk liquid fire, twisting and making him want.
“Precisely. They’d try to annul the place within an afternoon, then we might have a war on our hands,” Daeira rolled her eyes. “Can you imagine the mess?”
Lucanis thought about the scars that peeked through her pretty dresses, under her gloves. Of the story Teia had found, about a mage who had ended a war with wits and a small band of fellow prisoners.
And. Fire, Spite added, the demon tugging at one of the wild curls that broke free from the knot at the knob of her spine. She couldn’t see him, but he caught the jolt of nerves, the way she looked about. She felt some presence.
“If any Templar tries to come for you, the job is on the house,” he said with practiced nonchalance. He was better at that mask now than he’d been as a green boy, tripping over his words at piercing blue eyes and sharp features.
Daeira wasn’t sharp featured- she looked like nothing so much as an illustration from a particularly filthy serial, soft curves over muscle- long curls that went down over a chest best described as buxom, and a matching ass and soft thighs. The straight sharp lines of her Mourn Watch coat only accentuated the hourglass figure.
Spite pressed the observation further- how pretty those storm-sea eyes would look shining with tears, the give of her hips against their hands as they pinned her down and left marks to go with those pretty freckles. Nipped along those silvery scars to see how much she hid, make her writhe and beg until he could get her to answer if those who made them were properly dead.
She was blushing, ducking her head and a lock of those cinnamon curls fell loose. “Thank you. I don’t think I could afford your going rate.”
He snorted. If she promised him herself, that would be payment enough for all of Thedas at her feet… that was for later. After the Evanuris were dead. “Rook, you saved my life and what remains of my sanity. I can never repay you, especially after the dragon.”
“You more than did your share of the rescue,” Daeira said, tartly, hand on her hip in a gesture she must have learned from Harding. “Or do I misremember you quite literally chucking a head at Calivan to get his attention?”
He smirked. The prison warden seemed a great deal less smug after that. “I’d have thought you’d have disapproved.”
Daeira waggled a hand at that, before looking around and answering softly, as if afraid of being overheard. “As a Watcher? It’s not the approved method for handling remains, truly. But I’m on an… enforced leave for a reason. Also, having gone through that place… they deserved all that and more.”
She’d been horrified at what the Venatori did there, he remembered, and had found records for him of Zara’s time studying in the Necropolis for a few years, chased down the bits of spellwork and tools Zara had used and would need.
Such a good Rook, Spite crooned. Pretty Rook. Sweet. Helps us. Needs reward.
The sounds of Emmrich returning with Lady Myrna started before Lucanis could respond.
“Watcher Ingellvar,” Myrna said, with that same placid tones she always had. “The professor has informed me that you cleansed the Vaults of the Beloved?”
Daeira straightened, fingers twitching as she fought the urge to smooth her hair. “We banished an outbreak of malign spirits and undead, and lit the candles to remind the Necropolis of what the reinforced wards should do.”
Myrna inclined her head. “I see. Then if two of you would perform the preliminary vows, I can arrange for volunteers to perform the rites proper.”
“Watcher Ingellvar and Messire Dellamorte can handle that,” Emmrich said with a conspiratorial look in his eye as he smiled at Lucanis. What was he thinking? “I wish to speak with the corpse who held the information about the rite. Something in this situation concerns me.”
Myrna did not frown so much as faintly wrinkle her brow, the stripe of dark stain on her lips pressed a hair. “It is unusual. Please inform me if you find further information. But it is imperitive that someone who lit the candles starts the rites.”
She handed Daeira two sets of parchment, both with faintly gleaming ink.
Daeira read them over, cheeks pink. “I. Of course, Lady Myrna. Otherwise the wards will fail. And the Vault will need to be cleansed again.”
“It’s one of the more harmless rituals,” Emmrich said, and Daeira gave him a questioning look that he couldn’t quite understand.
Spite?
Embarrassment. Pretty Rook is afraid we will. Balk? Know you. Don’t like. Necropolis.
Lucanis had to admit he wasn’t terribly fond of it- he had taken too many contracts on mages in Nevarra to be completely comfortable walking around openly. And he worried that someone would see or sense Spite and act… rash.
Rook would. Step in. Choose us, Spite sounded reassuring, but Lucanis caught the thread of anticipation in his thoughts. This rite. Would be. A deal. A vow. Promise herself.
Spite offered him an image of Daeira, sleepy and content, curled up under his comforter, one hand beckoning them, revealing a bruise-bite on her throat. The deep plum fabric cascaded over her curves in a way that owed more towards desire than realism, but…
Ours and ours above all, Spite hummed. Better us. We protect. Our Rook. Is vulnerable.
Lucanis wasn’t entirely certain what Spite meant by that- even after three years the demon wasn’t always understandable. But the image of Daeira- fierce, clever Daeira with her wicked sunshine smile and endless patience with their team- bound to someone else was enough to make rage flood his lungs and make it hard to breathe.
“What he means is that there shouldn’t be an emotional hangover,” Daeira clarified after a moment. “Sometimes the spirits that take notice of our rituals can make it so we feel certain… emotions more strongly than we otherwise would.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not that I think Spite would let another spirit influence you.”
Spite hummed at that.
“Unless he thought it was funny,” Lucanis countered, trying not to shoot a look at the demon. “Have you had that experience?”
“Once,” she said, slumping her shoulders with the weight of old ghosts. “It ended in embarrassment and so I try to take other duties instead.”
Spite laid a hand on her shoulder, and he saw the twitch as she fought the impulse to turn.
The man he had been would have refused. Would have told Daeira about Spite’s promises, that the demon wanted her for the pair of them. That he was a monster, and one hungry for her sweetness and bite, the stormy seas of her eyes and arch of her stretching her back, the wild laugh.
“If it helps prevent us from fighting more skeletons...” he said instead, and her face lit up in relief.
How could this be wrong, he told himself, if it eased her burdens?
-
Stupid mortals had tried to use their own language. Had changed the vows.
Better, for what he wanted, but they didn’t know that. Spite knew.
Exalt above all others, their Daeira had promised. Indulge their desires, she’d said, flush and trying not to imagine just that.
Lucanis told him to be patient. That they would have their pretty Rook. And they had comforted their Rook as she sniffled before. The death mages hadn’t really let her back. She had to be quiet. Hide.
Stupid mortals. Stupid politics.
Except it left their Rook. Vulnerable. And they could. Coil like a dragon. Around her softness. Her warmth. Keep it close. Keep it for themselves.
Lucanis was remembering the way her tongue darted out to lick her lips as she prepared to start the vows, the warmth of the candlelight as she recited the words, holding the taper, more real and more holy to him than Andraste’s statues in a chantry. Her hands like benediction when she extended them to him, bare and scarred and streaked with pearly wax as the light burned lower.
Spite shivered. He liked the hazy. The hooding of the eyes. The stutter in her breath. Sweet Rook. Walking gracefully. Into their arms.
Lucanis groaned, and palmed the body between the legs, pressure and friction. It made them jolt. It was pleasure. Called from the body.
Wait, Spite hissed. He’d seen how that haze. Rook’s hazy eyes. It didn’t leave. Not all the way. She smelled of want. Boiling up. She turned her head. Sharp intakes of breath.
She would come. To them. She vowed. Exalt. Indulge. Body and mind and soul. She gave herself. Not knowing. How strong it was.
-
Daeira felt strange.
It wasn’t her normal feeling of frustration and ache that accompanied her visits home. Jumping through hoops for a crumb of acceptance, she was used to that. Ever since the spirits of the Necropolis decided she needed to dwell as much amongst the living as with them, she was used to being a curiosity. The elf-lass found amongst the graves. No family, no standing, but she’d taken to magic like it was an old friend, fog and frost obscuring a child who wanted to cry alone, candles lighting as she entered a room.
(Her poor roommate had taken forever to believe that she wasn’t doing it on purpose.)
There had been tests whenever she outperformed the human sons and daughters of nobility or senior necromancers. One Tevene magister’s son had claimed she was siphoning power from others. The tests from that had hurt like a bitch, and Vorgoth had finally stepped in when it looked like the tester was about to damage her arm permanently.
All in all, exile was probably an easier fate than vivisection.
Not that she’d tell the team that was the other option. Chaos would ensue. Fire, screaming, arrows where no arrow should go…
…and Lucanis, with his watchful eyes and knives, coiled too tight. Offering to slaughter Templars for her. Turning her head to see a flash of feathers and a Venatori with some new gaping holes.
Her cunt clenched, and she shook her head. The ritual must have been one of those ones that made the participants feel something afterwards, whatever Emmrich and Myrna thought. In this case, a little frisky. It was known to happen. As long as no one broke a tomb or took someone unwilling, it was all in good fun. Side effect of the whole centuries of mages not being legally people and all that. Embarrassing if your partner said you were only good as a fuck in the dark. That they shouldn't talk about it. He'd be ashamed to be associated with her like that.
Eh, she'd had better.
But now? She was freezing- she’d not warmed up despite the hour she’d spent in a steaming bath, and her hands kept creeping between her legs, brushing aside the curls and ghosting along the seam, wishing the hands were calloused like a swordsman, nails coming to a subtle point. He’d be warm, not freezing… that steady gaze that took in too much watching every reaction she let slip… but if she drowned in the tub because she was fingering herself then she was pretty sure Solas would find a way to bring her back just to kill her again. Meh. Harding bled too, and Varric. Why couldn’t he haunt one of his old friends?
“Gilivhan’s dirty bedsheets,” she muttered. She and Varric had a running contest on the funniest blasphemy they could come up with, though that had ended with the ritual. She’d have to share that one with…
She stumbled, head splitting, knee hitting the edge of the sunken bathing pool, and let out a cry.
The Lighthouse was cold, and her skin raised goosebumps and her teeth chattered. It was seeping into her bones, and the colors seemed to be dimming. Brilliant.
She needed to get help. This was worse than any knock on effects for a routine ritual. Her mind was racing, and she…
She could wake Emmrich. The Senior Mourn Watcher might know…
Her guts twisted at the thought. Did she really want to discuss this with the professor? He would want to consult his colleagues, and she didn’t want to be an experiment anymore. Even if he meant it kindly. Keep that door locked and barred and trapped.
Bellara or Neve would be a choice, but they’d insist on telling Emmrich, and the more she thought about the idea, the more panic caught in her throat, and she scrambled for cover, fingers snagging on the plain black linen of her pajamas. Shirt up and over, covering the Y scar that peeked through above and under her cleavage, the incisions from wanting to sample her unneeded organs, the long sleeves to cover the scars from the Magister's son down her arm.
The trousers, no time for underthings. No running for her, but she’d be fine. She just had to…
Where?
Lucanis. The thought hissed and coiled like smoke in her mind, filling the fizzing gaps in her mind. Lucanis was warm, safe. He’d watch over her, keep anyone from trying to cut into her, take more from her. No one would dare.
She half-heard the humming noise she made, ears flicking as she tread over stone and stair.
No one was in the library, and she was able to cross the room quickly, skin too tight and feeling every rivulet of water that snaked down her skin, along her spine and between her breasts, dripping from her hair.
Quick and quiet, except for her heart thundering in her ears, urging her onwards. Perhaps she should…
She bit her fist to hold back the whimper at the idea of turning back. She needed to find Lucanis. He could help her, something in her was screaming it, hooking fingers into her ribs and pulling her towards the dining hall.
Neve was spending the night in Minrathous, she remembered- she was back but still spending more time there than the Lighthouse, usually with one or two of the others.
Bellara wouldn’t notice her unless she came into her rooms and tapped her shoulder.
Davrin was in Arlathan with the Veil Jumpers, helping with a Blight patch.
Harding seemed to be sleeping. Good for her. Daeira would like to be in bed.
She let out a gasping moan at the image of a large bed with sheets in familiar purple and silver, with scarf-like bolts of silk to match that bound her to the heavy wooden bedposts. Stings and kisses intertwined into a flood of bliss as someone kissed up her thighs, held apart by those scarves, smooth and unyielding as the man let out a gravelly noise that melted her.
She stumbled her way up the shallow steps to get into the Dining Hall, leaning on the table. She was still freezing, a distant concern about her core body temperature rattling around in her head, but her face and cunt were both feverishly hot, and she could feel how slick she was getting.
Did she really want Lucanis to see her like this?
We want. To see you. Like this.
The voice was low and raspy, not quite familiar, and the soft press of something like fingers on her shoulders made the tension melt to something tolerable.
“Spite?” The name felt like she was speaking from the bottom of a river, every sound letting in more of whatever spell this was, absorbing into her blood and marrow and life spark itself.
Clever Rook. Our pretty girl.
A hand she couldn’t see twisted in her wet curls to settle along the back of her skull, and with a sigh she allowed her spirit to steer her towards the pantry, towards the hidden space Lucanis had carved out for himself.
Her spirit’s careful grip- she knew he was strong, had seen what Lucanis could do when they worked together, and the firm hold caused her no pain- kept her upright as they clicked open the passage cover and down the stone ramp to his room, lit by the lamps they had bought in the Treviso market.
Lucanis was lounging on an armchair by his fire, a purple glimmer visible from his otherwise shadowed eyes, watching her with an impassive face.
(Purple-pure, a sign that he and Spite were aligned and pleased, not the magenta of frustration and arguments.)
She watched with a dry mouth as his grip on the armchair tightened briefly, the most minute of slips in his control in the bloodless knuckles.
“Spite helped you, Rook?” Lucanis sounded mildly concerned. “Are you alright?”
There was a distant alarm. She couldn’t hear Spite, much less touch him. This must be about the ritual.
But why was Lucanis not surprised? He was so careful. He said he didn’t trust Spite to know their strength, that he was ill tempered and upset easily. Daeira had understood- Spite had been brought into the mortal world against his will. He only knew the Ossuary for the first three years. A few months outside of it wouldn’t be enough.
“Rook?”
He wasn’t moving, holding himself still.
“I feel peculiar,” she said, blinking heavily. She watched him hungrily- his shirt was unbuttoned, letting her see a strip of flesh and hair that made her mouth water. Spite’s hold meant she couldn’t move her head to get a better look. “Were you asleep? Sorry.”
“I don’t sleep much,” he reminded her, and she could see the slight lift to the corner of his mouth. As well as the not so slight lift… elsewhere.
Please tell her she hadn’t interrupted his alone time. Or his time with Spite? That was an interesting thought, thought she didn’t know what Spite’s form looked like. Lucanis was evasive on that front.
She could make it up to him. To them. As an apology for intruding. The thought settled warm in her gut, and she probably shouldn’t sit anywhere right now, she’d leave a puddle.
Dirty girl, Spite crooned in her ear, You want. To apologize. With sex?
She felt loose and needy enough to answer honestly.
“I know what I look like,” she drawled, impressed with how clearly it came out. Slightly tipsy, but clear. “I can use it as a weapon or have it used as a weapon against me.”
Her spirit’s free hand, with too long fingers and a warmth that pulled like gravity, it settled on one heavy breast and a thumb swirled around the thin fabric over her nipple.
She whimpered, and saw Lucanis’ jaw clench, him swallow his reaction down.
Most would see her reacting to nothing. Lucanis… what did he see?
That hand seemed to melt the cold where it trailed down her breast, along the curve of her stomach, resting on her inner thigh.
Our pretty Rook, Spite crooned. What should we do with her?
“I’m really rather hoping sex is on the table,” she said, startling a sharp, pleased laugh from Lucanis.
She smiled back at him, her stubborn, delightful Crow.
“Eventually,” he said, low. “You are a bit too far from the bed, and I don’t want our first time with you on the floor. You deserve better than that, you see?”
She went to take a step towards them, hoping Spite would allow it, but the spirit pulled away, and she crumpled to her knees, stinging a bit but…
Something caramel-sweet was in the air at the rightness of this. She looked up at Lucanis, who was staring at her, mask hanging on by tatters.
“Come here, Rook,” he rasped, leaning forward. “Come to me.”
She could do that.
She leaned forward, crawling slowly, grateful that the Lighthouse provided a soft, plush carpet.
The purple light flared in his eyes, and a jolt of pride and pleasure went up her spine. He followed every sway and arch as she moved.
Pretty Rook, Spite ran a claw down her shirt, the faint sting over her back suggesting that he drew a bit of blood. How far. do your freckles go?
The shirt was sliced along the back, revealing her skin, the messier scarring, and she couldn’t quite be graceful in getting it off of her wrists and hands, but the way it made her chest bounce made Lucanis gulp and Spite hiss.
Are they. As soft as they look? Her spirit was trailing a soothing stripe where he had scratched her, and his words hit like wine.
“You could check some more,” she answered, letting out a little gasp. Oh, she wanted that. Spite holding her breasts whenever he wished, taking the weight off her, invisible hands playing her like a fiddle.
You want that? Spite asked, and she probably should be more concerned by how easily he was picking those desires from her mind. But spirits could do that, couldn't they?
“Please,” she moaned as he grabbed her hips, clawed hands at the knot holding up her trousers. Her ass at least was miraculously unscarred, and between climbing the Necropolis stairs and training to fight various horrors meant she was pretty proud of how it looked.
Spite kneading it, those claws digging in without calling forth blood? That meant everything. Lucanis forgot himself enough to lick his lips.
“How ready is our Daeira?” Lucanis said, and his voice caressing her name- her real name- nearly undid her, face in the carpet and ass in the air, all dignity left at his feet.
She crawled some more, Spite helping her pull free of her trousers. She needed to reach him, needed it more than the air in her lungs.
“No underwear?” Lucanis asked, and his voice was finally a bit ragged. “Were you so impatient?”
She nodded, having finally reached him, and she nuzzled her face against his thigh, finally where she belonged. “Needed you. Couldn’t think, couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t get warm.”
Her shiver was admittedly partially a put on. He was close enough that she could feel how he liked it, though.
“You’re cold, mi amor?” He tilted up her chin, and she tilted her head, chasing his touch. His pupils were blown, and his hair was a bit disheveled- like he’d been raking his hands through it.
“So cold,” she pleaded, before placing a butterfly kiss to his fingers. “Help me?”
“I need you to be ready, and Spite didn’t answer me,” he said, rising. “I will have to check myself.”
With that, he leaned over and hoisted her up, Spite’s strength meaning he did so smoothly and easily, one arm under her knees, the other under her arms, letting her lean against his chest as he carried her.
He was slow and careful as he laid her on the bed, spreading her hair above her head and his thumb running over the scars of her arm, frowning.
She didn’t like that, didn’t like the idea that something about her upset him.
“I tried to make it heal cleaner,” she promised him, and his eyes darted to her face.
“That you are scarred doesn’t offend me,” he said, carefully. He was very precise in everything, wasn't he? That's why it was good when he was too happy to be so focused. “That someone hurt you so much… Daeira, these are surgical in nature. Not so different from some of the Venatori experiments.”
“I was an experiment,” she admitted, wanting to curl up in shame. “Crypt baby, no one knew where I came from, then my magic came in, and…”
She shrugged, unused to going into the details. The people involved all knew, and she didn't need others to know that all those scholars saw her as a puzzle not a person. “I survived. So did you.”
“So we did,” he said. He smiled at her, almost close enough to kiss. “Though I will have their names.”
She shouldn’t, she knew. Everyone had enough to deal with, and if it got out it might cause problems for the Mourn Watch…
“I’ll tell you,” came out of her mouth instead, and her spirit’s fingers were then playing with her ear, and her mind went foggy.
She was theirs, she’d told them that, hadn’t she? Made a vow to be theirs, and Lucanis had to make sure no one would harm what was his, not after everything.
That was right.
“Good girl,” he said, and she nodded happily. That’s what she was for them. Everyone else could have the mule of a mage, but her Crow and her spirit could have her submission.
His fingers were between her legs, and she bucked her hips, because two were crooked in her and hitting just right, and the cry she let out made her happy this wasn’t in her room where there were people who could hear.
Let them hear. Spite’s words coiled around her, sinking into her mind. Let everyone know how well we please our Rook. How easily you yield to us.
She nodded, because of course. She was theirs, and they wanted to show her off, which meant she pleased them, and she got to feel good, so good it made it hard to think.
Clever little Rook can. think later, Spite promised. We need our Rook. to be a good little doll now.
She could do that. She was almost certain she’d get orgasms for doing that, especially as she felt like a single further touch would be the breaking point. Everything was too sensitive, and not thinking made her just feel so good. Like this was wear she belonged, taken apart and cherished by her two partners.
Lucanis’ thumb sat firmly on her clit, and her world shattered.
-
Daeira was looking at him with glassy eyes, panting shallowly. “‘Canis?”
“I’m right here, Daeira,” he said, watching with satisfaction as her breathing hitched as he said her real name. He noticed that the rare times someone did she always looked surprised and pleased, and he’d waited to use it at the right moment.
He removed his shirt, and couldn’t help his chuckle at her expression. “Now you know how I felt when Spite started to undress you. Stay there, I’ll join you, alright?”
She nodded, nose scrunched up. “Hurry?”
He neatly folded his shirt and placed it on the chair, then removed his sleep trousers. He’d taken Spite’s prediction to heart, and prepared the room. Setting a scene, his instructors had called it, taking some ideas from the serials she lingered over.
Daeira had appreciated it, her heart racing.
We can smell it, Spite agreed. Taste?
“In a moment, Spite,” he promised. He watched the way Daeira’s eyes followed him, her fingers fisted in the sheets.
She was listening to him, even as her body begged her not to.
His sweet little mage, so obedient like this. Not that he didn’t love her fire- the thing that made her blaze like a comet through Thedas, fighting demons and dragons. Who had freed him from the Ossuary, and smiled when he allowed his desire for vengeance to overtake the desire to pretend to be the same man who was captured.
To pretend not to be a monster.
But he didn’t have to pretend with her, did he? She had accepted him just as he was before making those vows. This was just his insurance.
After all, he had been betrayed before. Spite gave him more than a few tricks, not all of which he’d told the team about. Being able to sense the desires and memories of others was one of those.
He knew Illario betrayed him. His cousin, his family, had given him to a Venatori witch.
He wasn’t quite sure what to do to him, just yet. Lucanis had to do something, of course. But he needed proof. And he needed to act with precision. Control. Spite made him stronger, allowed him to perform feats that other Crows could never, but an abomination was not a figure to be trusted.
He needed to convince the Talons that he was the better option. It was slowly working- missions against the Butcher and his men, fighting the dragon. Daeira had charmed many of his fellow Crows, as well. Teia was encouraging him to court her, even. Her support made him seem more human, steady.
And Maker, he wanted her. The sweep of freckles over her skin, the way her hair could never stay in place, the tapping of her fingers as she tried to figure out a polite way to answer a letter.
“Where to start,” Lucanis mused, holding his fingers just over her stomach. Soft as the rest of her, but he’d seen her in a fight- strong, too, and capable of throwing a grown man over her hip.
“Wherever you want?” Daeira’s answer still had the imprint of her- he’d never admit it, but he’d worried that the vows might leave her completely erased. That flash of mischief, though…
He slid his hand up, her head tilted back, as he planned his next move.
Now she was in front of him, every thought he’d had about how to have her was in front of him at once.
Where to begin?
The delicate column of her throat could wait until he was in her, fangs and hands alike. The delicate control of knowing just how far he could take it and have her remain safe.
He climbed in the bed, careful to not put any weight on her as he crouched over her trembling form.
Her mouth, as was traditional, he decided, resting his forearms to bracket her, his cock in the cradle of her soaking thighs.
She tasted of those lemon candies she loved, tart and sweet, and moaned into his mouth in turn, her hips bucking up and tempting him.
“Trying to make me hurry?” he asked, enjoying her helpless little mewl.
“Feels so good,” she sounded drunk, tears in her eyes. “Please?”
“I want to savor this,” he said, lowering his head to nip at her breasts. “You tempt me with these, you know. Stretching while we look over records, those sweaters that cling to every curve. How they brush against me whenever you reach around me to get coffee, or a snack.”
She flushed down to those lovely mounds, and he smirked. He’d wondered if she did that on purpose, and this made him suspect he was right.
That earned her a sharper bite to the underside of one, making her back arch off the bed as he tasted blood.
One of Spite’s quirks, one where the results made him forget shame. Faster, more power to his blows, heal quicker.
Things that allowed them to survive. That allowed him to protect Daeira, his home.
And the taste…
The taste was sugared lemons and Andoral’s Breath and churros to him, something like home, like happiness.
“Love you,” she slurred, one hand drifting to pat lazy circles on his back. He could punish her for that movement, but it made Spite slide into their body and purr his contentment.
Besides, she said she loved him.
He looked up at her face, and pushed aside a lock of hair. “I feel the same.”
Then he dragged his nose down her torso, nails pricking her hips as she squirmed.
“Maker, you are perfect,” he said, a Spite-flavored impulse making him lick a stripe above her belly button. “Lush and strong and mine.”
Ours.
“Y’r perfect,” Daeira huffed a little laugh that made her shake.
“You might be the only person who thinks that,” he answered, before continuing downwards, kissing along her thigh and fighting the urge to grind himself against the mattress, to give up this game and bury himself in her and leave marks that wouldn’t be covered by her clothes.
He bit down on her inner thigh, making her scream.
Good scream, Spite reassured him, as if the increase of slick wetness didn’t tip him off.
Blood and pleasure in his mouth, and he lapped it up, not allowing himself to apply himself to her clit.
Not yet.
She’s ready, Spite said, and Lucanis knew if he waited any longer, Spite would take advantage of the fact that Daeira could now feel his touch, hear his words.
Lucanis raised himself over her body, and gave Daeira one final kiss as he entered her, and he wondered absently if any of their companions were awake to hear the noise she made.
“Daeira,” he called as she whimpered, her ear twitching and fluttering as his breath tickled it. “My light, you can do this, you feel so tight, so good, let me show you how good I can make you feel, please, I want you like this all the time, my wicked Rook, I’ll be at your side to challenge gods but like this? You are my good doll.”
His voice gave into a hiss and growl as he went on, the demon coloring everything. She didn’t seem unhappy, though.
She nodded, a dazed look on her face, but her legs were wrapped to take him deeper, and he thrust in harshly.
“Such a good girl,” he said, chasing his release, enjoying how his words seemed to sink into her. “Should I have you wet and eager like this as I have to go through endless reports and contract reviews? Keep you on a bench so I can play with your sweet cunt when I need you? Where anyone can come in and see how eager you are to be the monster’s whore?”
His own self loathing was bleeding in, mixing with his own pent up loneliness and the realization that he’d been betrayed, and then Spite…
Spite had once been Determination, and Passion before that. His own needs were shaping Lucanis’, making his wants to be sharper and more possessive.
“They can see my Rook but they can’t touch,” he promised, and he saw the relief and joy that sparked in her. “I can have Spite keep you happy while I have meetings, can’t I? He’ll leave marks as you scream loud enough to be heard by whoever is sitting the Sunburst Throne, passed between a pair of demons.”
She made an agreeing noise, nodding wildly. “Please, please, I wan’ that.”
“Of course, preciosa,” he promised, kissing the tip of her nose. “We’ll keep you so full and well pleasured that you can’t even think.”
Not always, obviously, he didn’t just want an empty shell, but when they needed it. When he needed that control. When she needed to give it to him.
Fuck, her climax was incredible when he was inside her, milking him as if needing something to be left behind.
And wasn’t that a thought…
He bit down again, on the juncture of throat and shoulder as he spilled inside her, and she seemed to come again just from that, still shaking as he soothed the wound.
The ritual, Spite said, ghostly hand playing lazily with her ears. More and more. She wants. She feels. You want. You feel. Wants. Consummation. Blood. Sex. Need.
Lucanis nodded against her throat, feeling his cock already start to stir.
The next climax resulted in her eyes fluttering closed and not reopening, even as she rippled around him.
Mind. Is in. Fade. Spite looked at him with a toothy grin. Still can. Play. She will dream. Of us. Of what we promised. Of what we. All. Desire.
“Mierda,” Lucanis said, shaking his head but not making any move to pull out of her.
The thought of it wasn’t… unpleasant, though. And he wasn’t hurting her. She loved this. And better dreams of them than arguments with Solas.
The demon’s form flickered, into something sharp and massive, blanketing them like a starless night.
Rook. Is not. His. Rook. Does not MAKE. Prisons. She opens doors. She is HOPE.
Tendrils of black and purple moved over them, and Lucanis jumped as one caressed his balls, coating his dick and spilling into her.
“Is this your way of saying you want a turn?” Lucanis asked, trying to keep his breathing even. Spite did not want to be alone in the body. That saved his life, he knew.
But being reminded that Spite had power like this, power over him…
Spite considered this. Yes. So she can dream. Of me. Taking pleasure. Without anyone seeing. Of being shared. Only us. That she is ours. Waking and dreaming. And we are hers. There will be. NO. Others.
Lucanis thought of those wistful touches Spite gave, trying to play with her hair or run his hand down her arm.
He imagined Daeira feeling those as more than pinpricks of energy, of Spite slipping a hand through her clothes to tweak a nipple as she enjoyed dinner. She was enthusiastic in her pleasures, would she be able to hide it from the others?
No, he didn’t think she could.
He rolled one of those nipples, feeling her breathing grow shaky and her body make little rippling arches.
Smiling, Lucanis Dellamorte went back to the task at hand.
-
Daeira woke up feeling strangely content, and it took a moment to realize where she was.
In Lucanis’ bed. Curled up to him like a creeping vine, head on his chest, leg hitched over his, loose and slightly sore.
The ritual, she remembered, had some effects. Alarming at first, but overall quite enjoyable.
Screaming orgasms usually were.
Clearly Emmrich had been mistaken on the ritual not having side effects.
She slowly sat up, taking stock. She remembered crawling to Lucanis, which was… unexpectedly hot. His patience fraying by the moment and all.
Spite- apparently she could see and hear him as a result, though she wasn’t certain if that would last. Hopefully it would.
Nothing they did hit any sore spots- even the biting. He didn’t reach for a knife, even if she suspected Crows usually used them for foreplay. He used the word whore, but not knife ear or skullfucker. And only suggested sharing her with Spite.
Putting her on display… it was a lot, but she’d enjoyed previous excursions into exhibitionism. And something about it made her still... it flattered her ego. Let them see that the famous Crow wanted her, and wanted everyone to know it.
She was still aroused, either by the fantasies that had made up her dreams or by the rite or both.
Her hair was going to take forever to brush out this morning, but that was worth it.
She looked down at Lucanis, who looked peaceful right now. No nightmares running him ragged, Spite allowing him to rest. The circles under his eyes were fading, and he was curled on his side, so tired he didn’t react to her getting up.
Daeira could do the sensible thing. She could grab her trousers and one of Lucanis’ sweaters and run for her room. Take another bath or five. With one of those bath oils that messed up Taash’ nose. Add in elfroot. Send a prayer that she didn’t run into Emmrich or Lace, the early risers of the team.
Or, she thought, seeing that Lucanis was currently erect and rolling onto his back, she could make a few things understood. Her mind was a bit clearer- consummation must have been the requirement, and with that done everything slid back towards normal.
“Lucanis…” she crooned, wincing a bit at how rough her voice sounded. Gargling with lemon and honey sounded like a must. “Are you awake?”
His eyes fluttered open, those truly unfair lashes on full display.
“Daeira?” he murmured, and she loved the way he said her name.
“I think the ritual had effects that we were told it wouldn’t,” she said, trailing a hand down his chest. He wasn’t as showy with his muscle as some of the others, but she remembered him picking her up like she was a feather. Lithe, with dark hair and a faint smattering of scars.
His eyes followed her hand like it was holding sacred fire.
“Spite,” Lucanis said, which was probably true. “Are you… alright? I’m not certain you remember…”
“I remember last night,” she chuckled, catching the guilty expression as it flickered. She knew he'd been waiting for her, thinking back. The set up had been pretty similar to one of her favorite serials. “Sorry I fell asleep. Though I think that didn’t stop you.”
He blushed at being caught. “I…”
“Relax,” she said, drawing lazy circles with her fingertips. “Lucanis, we both said the vows, didn’t we?”
He nodded, not quite understanding yet. He probably was distracted, poor thing. And without his coffee.
She leaned forward. “I am yours, and you are mine. You spoke the vows as well, you were as caught as I was.”
A test, to see if he’d be honest.
“Spite doesn’t think they were temporary,” Lucanis admitted, leaning up a bit. Something in her vibrated at the words, and she knew her spirit was right. She'd spoken the vows as being an eternal promise, as did they. She wouldn't get as desperate as last night again, but she would be held to them, in life and death.
She pushed him back down. They were of a height, and she was the one already up.
He also blushed adorably for a man who usually carried an entire market stall of knives.
“Then you are stuck with me, Master Assassin,” she teased, hitching a leg over his torso. Just close enough to tease, his dick against her ass.
And to give him time to remember to breathe.
“And here I thought you were mine and Spite’s little doll,” Lucanis said, but he wasn’t displeased. His hands were firmly on her hips, and she’d probably have bruises from that later, a pleased little twist in her stomach at the thought.
“I enjoyed that,” she said, leaning forward enough that her curls brushed his chest. “But I think, my tenacious man, that you need to be able to let go. In a way that’s private, and safe, and enjoyable.”
She watched the movement of this throat, giving away how much he liked that idea.
“Now, Lucanis, I am going to offer you a choice. Either I ride you until I can’t anymore, or I sit on your face and you have breakfast that isn’t coffee.”
He looked amused but tortured by the choice, indecision wracking his every thought.
Choose, clever Rook.
Spite was pressed up behind her, and she leaned back. She couldn’t see him, but Lucanis could, given his heavy-lidded expression as that invisible presence guided her into a kiss.
Heady and tinged with magic, she was fairly certain she was going to worry about dehydration at this point.
Lucanis. Tended. To. That, Spite said, and she had a flash of Lucanis lifting her to make her drink some water.
“Such a good boy,” she said, and oh, he really liked that, she could feel it against her. “You did so well last night. But you don’t know what you want more, do you?”
He shook his head, slowly, like he was afraid the admission would send her away.
“It’s alright, Lucanis,” she reassured him. “I wasn’t sure last night either. Everything was so intense. But you took such good care of me. Won’t you let me take care of you?”
He nodded, pupils blown and hands dug in even more. Also, she was fairly certain his dick was trapped between her ass and Spite's crotch. Area. She really needed to learn to see him.
Given last night and that she was still a bit sore, she decided on moving forwards, slowly enough he could protest if he wanted to.
I’ll keep watch. On our Lucanis. Spite was in front of her now, she thought.
“Thank you, Spite,” she said, before settling down.
His ears were a bit muffled by her thighs, but she kept up the steady stream of praise. It wasn’t hard, given how eagerly he was eating her out, the way his nose bumped against her clit, and whatever subtle changes Spite seemed to have made to his tongue.
A tendril of pressure was also petting her clit, and hands were roaming over her body- too many hands, of varying shapes and sizes, holding her up, playing with her chest and ears, and sharp sharp teeth and a rough tongue so light on her skin. Looking over her shoulder suggested that Spite was as eager to play with Lucanis, which was a… okay, Lucanis’ cock leaking and reacting to invisible hands was remarkable.
It was probably best for Lucanis’ hearing that he had elven earmuffs when she came. She'd never been quiet, and the vows made certain she knew how much they both liked it when she was loud.
Also, she could feel how pleased they both were- Spite at having them both, and how relaxed they were. Lucanis at her easy praise, how much he liked pleasing her. Pride in her trust and compliments.
Spite and Lucanis settled her on their lap, and she rested her chin on his shoulder. “How was that?”
He snorted. “Hunting for praise?”
Delicious, Spite interrupted. More?
“Tonight, if you wish,” Daeira agreed, wondering if they could just cuddle. She was comfy like this. She figured she deserved a day to adjust. Figure out how this worked.
“We should get up,” Lucanis sighed. “Before Bellara starts rattling on the door. Breakfast is almost ready.”
Daeira drew back to study his calm, expressionless face. “They heard me, didn’t they?”
“They probably heard you in the Black City,” Lucanis agreed, a smile breaking on his face at her expression.
“Ass,” she laughed, standing up and stretching, then waiting for Lucanis to unfreeze before she swayed over to pick up her trousers. “For that, I’m stealing that nice soft black sweater of yours.”
“What happened to my sweet little doll?” Lucanis sounded amused, not annoyed, and that eased the last little bit of worry as she pulled it out of the wardrobe.
“You can have her tonight, but I need to be sassy Mayday now,” she said after pulling it on, kissing his cheek. “You can imagine how to punish me later if you want.”
She was pretty sure that Lucanis realized the vows bound both ways now, at least. And the sweater was comfy.