Archive of Our Own ^beta

It should be relief that floods Daphne’s system when she returns to the Villa, in the late hours of the evening, and moves past the several layers of Crow security stationed from the gardens, to the hallways, to the First Talon’s private wing. Relief that she is still easily admitted, that orders have not been changed in the time she’s been away — that Lucanis’s insistence she is always welcome here has not worn thin. Relief that she finds him not in his office, but in his chambers, in bed, sleeping.

But it’s something more like envy that blooms in her chest, a nostalgic ache; yearning for the nights he could not sleep without her near. She should be happy, that he’s doing well. But the nights she’s slept soundly herself, since their parting, can be counted on one hand, and most of them have occurred back here. With him.

So she leans back against the door as she closes it behind herself, pockets the key and watches him stir as it clicks shut. He moves easily, turns under his sheets to face her, linen slipping low over his hip. The fact that he’s not reaching for the night table — custom built with a spring-loaded drawer full of a few of his favorite blades — means Spite has already told him it’s her.

A spark catches in the center of her chest; anger flares white-hot before old habits rear their head and she quenches the feeling. She’s angry at herself, really, for the knowledge that once, the spirit would have been wrestling for control of Lucanis’s body at her return. Urging him to move to her. But she can feel him, a flickering at the edge of her senses, thick and ugly and displeased with the time that’s passed between them. Resentful of her continued refusal to come home, for good. She is too afraid to wonder if Lucanis shares the sentiment.

Daphne does not speak as he moves, pushes himself upright with one hand, flips the bed-dressings open with the other. His torso is bare, save the coarse expanse of dark hair that crosses his chest, travels lower to dip beneath the waistband of his smalls. His arms look tan, like he’s been spending more time outside — by the sea, or training fledglings, she thinks. Last they’d spoken he’d mentioned off-hand that the First Talon was the only head of any Crow house who did not direct their training, at least to some degree. He’d mused that he’d appreciate the more hands-on work, if he could fit it into his already tight schedule.

She stops herself before she thinks too much on the other things they discussed: more of the magelings are expressing an interest in necromancy; the other Talons are starting to grumble about the break in their access to her corpse-whispering, and the complaints are starting to out-pace how often they had grumbled about him favoring an outsider when he’d suggested she start charging them for her services in the first place.

Neither does Lucanis speak as he moves, unhurried, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and standing to cross the room and meet her at the door. For a moment, fear claws up the back of her throat as she reaches out, tries to connect with Spite and feel the spirit out, assess the situation. He remains quiet, curled tight at the base of Lucanis’s skull, the tendrils of her magic that she’s sent searching for Spite meeting his resistance like fingers against a cold window pane. There’s a crack in her heart that she’s been trying to mend, and it widens now, even as Lucanis reaches her, runs his eye over the planes of her face.

A fingertip finds the line of the scar that stretches down the left side of her face, and she flinches under his touch. It’s too close, she wasn’t prepared for it; the scar is not new — it’s nearly a year old — and his concern should have faded, by now. For the old injury. For her.

His touch shifts, follows the edge of her jaw. In turn, his fingers light on the row of little golden hoops that line the shell of her ear, the gilded bird skull pins she made to hold back her hair, now that her bangs have grown out and she’s cut the rest so that it falls neatly around her shoulders. A slight tug at her scalp, as he plucks at the ends, gets a sad smile curling the corners of her mouth. Her eyes follow his lips as they move in kind.

“You’ve changed,” he says, letting her hair fall from between his fingers, his hands hovering in the air between them before returning to his sides.

Daphne responds, “No, I haven’t,” and the words barely manage to slip past the rising pressure at the base of her throat, the not enough she’s tempted to tack onto the end lodging there like a wet bird roosting in a fissure. Her hair’s different, she’s collected more grave gold, and it’s true there’s something in the core of her that feels like it has shifted since she left, but the fact remains: it’s not enough; not enough to stay, not enough to stop coming back.

She’s as lost as she ever was, wheeling against a headwind of her own design. She does not belong in the Watch, anymore than she belongs on the decks of Isabela’s ships, or camping on the roadsides of Tevinter or Ferelden, or even here in this room, with him.

“I should,” she starts, jerking forward to begin a turn to face the door, intent on finding the handle and letting herself out.

Lucanis’s palm stills her, presses her backwards until her shoulder-blades meet expertly carved, polished wood. “No,” he breathes, fingers toying with her collarbone, leaning in close, “You shouldn’t.”

Instinctively, she relaxes under his touch, slumps back against the door and watches his tight, unhappy smile loosen along with her posture. Eyes darkening, his gaze falls to her lips; they warm under his attention, part to allow a long, steadying breath as she cants her hips forwards until they’re flush with his, until his hand is sliding into her hair. Cradling the nape of her neck, he drags her forward and her thoughts tumble around each other like rocks in a river. She should insist on leaving, cut him loose at last, she should pull him to the floor and cut off his smalls with her mageknife, draw Spite out of him and beg forgiveness, talk to him, to them both, explain herself, turn and flee again, never come back, she should stay forever. They wear each other smooth, all her varied desires, and then she lets them sink to the bottom, lets herself melt into him as he claims her mouth with his own — bruising, burning, begging.

“Lucanis,” she says, after a long while, in the space between one kiss and the next, for no other reason than to feel his name on her tongue before he replaces its taste with his own.

“Whatever you’re going to say, don’t” he responds, twisting her hair between his fingers until it almost hurts, until it sends a shiver coursing down her spine, through her arms as she lifts them, skims her palms over his chest.

He thinks she’s still protesting, he’s asking her to gift them this moment before she breaks his heart again, for whatever time this would count as. Does he keep counting, each time she leaves, or is it all one steady chipping away at whatever feeling he still carries for her? She doesn’t know the answer, couldn’t say how she keeps track of it herself — how many times has she sunk her claws into her own flesh and torn it apart? Doesn’t know how much longer she can get away with this before both of them are just shades of themselves.

She nods, the motion cut short by his free hand moving to her jaw, pulling her across the scant inch separating them until they’re kissing again. His tongue crowds into her mouth alongside her own, and dimly she can sense Spite’s protestations, his contradictory glee.

It’s not long before the kiss has a fire brewing just below her navel, has her gripping at the short hairs beneath her fingers, angling her head to get Lucanis’s lip between her teeth. He cuts that short, too, slips one foot behind her own, nudges her heel to the side until she’s forced to turn with him to stop from tumbling over. Guiding her with his hips, his tightening grip at the back of her neck, he moves them both towards the bed, says:

“You’ll stay the night, this time,” and it is not a question.

She answers anyway, “I will,” low and airy. It’s the most she’s agreed to, so far. He releases her, moves his hands to work the laces of the leather vest she’s wearing over her tunic. She sits on the edge of his mattress, lays back against the rumpled sheets and duvet as he climbs over her, straddles her hips and pushes the vest open.

Leaning up, she slips her arms free of the vest and tunic both, watches him tear them away from her body as she asks, “And what does Spite have to say about that?”

She’s not sure she wants to know the answer.

“Spite,” Lucanis grinds the spirit’s name out between clenched teeth as he grips the waistband of her underclothes, starts inching them down the curve of her hip, “has no say in this, not this time.”

In the back of her mind, she wonders if their hard-won truce is fraying at the seams. But she gave up the right to wonder, to ask, and can’t hold onto the worry right now anyway, not when Lucanis is lifting his weight from her thighs, working his one remaining garment free as she kicks her smalls to the floor. When he’s done and running a hand from the head of his cock to the base, the motion drawing a strangled gasp from her at the sight of him, she grips the back of his thighs, digs her nails into his muscle. He rolls his lower lip between his teeth, eyes going hazy and half-lidded as her hands wander upwards. She grabs at the swell of his ass, and his head tips backward a moment, hair slipping over his shoulders, exposed throat bobbing as she urges him forward.

She’s burning, aching for him already, all rosy cheeks and flushed chest, fingers grasping at whatever part of him she can reach, mouth watering as he continues stroking himself; faster now, the tip of his cock slipping between his fingers as he leans forward, spits on himself and swirls it over the head with his palm, pushes his hips forward to fuck his own hand. Breathing in deep, she drops her hands to the backs of his knees, tugs so that he’s moving closer to her face, sitting back on his heels as she swats his hand away, replaces it with her own.

Reaching back, his fingers find the ball closure of the piercing in one of her nipples, and he tugs, thrusts forward into her hand as she gasps and squirms beneath him. Daphne lifts her own hips up into the air as if she’ll find relief there, meets nothing but empty air and clenches, desperate. He thumbs gently at her nipple, traces slow circles over the peak of her breast as if to soothe, before pinching her between his knuckles, scraping his thumbnail lightly over the sensitive surface.
He’s in a mood, she realizes then. It’s usually her who’s teasing him, setting the pace for them both. Tonight’s different. Maybe it’s that Lucanis is craving control as they stare down the beginning of another cycle of reunion and parting. Or that she’s feeling utterly unmoored despite taking the last year or so away, chasing after the fool’s gold of what she once thought freedom looked like. Either way, it’s a welcome change, has her tightening her grip around him, sinking deep into the mattress beneath them and looking up at him, limpid and pleading.

She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, nods as he stares down at her, brown eyes molten where they are usually warm. She says, “Give me everything, tonight?” softens the end so it is a request more than a demand.

Lucanis holds her gaze for what could be half a moment, or half a century. She can’t tell, just knows that in whatever the span of time may be, something in her settles, is soothed by the intensity of his attention. He does not look away, and she does not break his stare, as he leans to brace himself against the headboard, pushes the blunt tip of his cock between her lips, her tongue moving over her teeth to welcome him. To relish in the saline musk, the heavy heat of him. Lifting her chin, she opens her throat to accomodate the length of him, jaw working around his girth as he draws back, thrusts again. It’s too shallow, and he’s moving too slow, dragging along her tongue in tortuous glides, and Daphne cannot help but worry that he’s holding back.

That he will not give her everything, not when she’s still unwilling to offer the same.

She hums around him — whines, really, pathetic and needy as her heart caves in on itself — and he echoes the sound, twists it into more of a strangled growl as he drops to his forearms, braces himself above her. She reaches down between her legs, slides her own fingers between the folds of her cunt, up to her throbbing clit, slick already as she starts working quick, desperate circles with her fingertips.

On his next thrust, he hits the back of her throat, and she moans, mouth watering, fingers dipping to her entrance, plunging inside of herself hard enough to match the force of his movements. She grinds the heel of her palm against her clit, works up to a frenzied pace as she bucks her hips into her own hand, Lucanis moving above her, fucking into her open mouth as she bobs with him, tries her damnedest to keep him as deep in her throat as she can manage.

Without warning, he wrenches himself free of her, drops down to his knees until he’s kneeling over the center of her torso, hands wrapping around her wrist to remove her hand from her cunt — she protests, a barking little moan that she can’t manage to fix words to — and twisting her until she’s flat on her stomach. Fingers wrap around her upper arms, lift her until she’s kneeling before him and her backside is flush against the still-hard length of his cock, her own saliva dampening the spot at the very base of her spine as he ruts against her, guides her head back to rest against his shoulder.

“Everything?” he asks, hoarse, whispering the word into the side of her neck, nosing at her as he folds her into his arms. Tight, close enough she can barely tell where her flesh ends and his begins.

She nods, cannot speak her answer, as he guides himself to her cunt, pushes inside of her slow and steady until he’s root-deep. Despite feeling him flush against her, despite the burning stretch of her cunt around him, she rocks back against him, as if she could take him even deeper inside her, pull him closer. She reaches back, loops her arms around the back of his neck as he moves. He buries his face in her hair, splays one hand across the center of her chest, the other below her navel. A snap of his hips, and he thrusts hard into her, the considerable thickness of his cock already pushing her towards the edge of release; the relative lack of preparation on both their parts lending an edge of pain to each of his deliberate thrusts, to the rising rhythm of their movements as they meet each other — him fucking her hard and fast, her going near boneless as she matches his pace, his desperation.

Until he stills, unexpectedly, groans into the crook of her shoulder in a tone that’s less pleasured and more restrained. He’s tense, the arms banded around her nearly vibrating as he holds her, as she presses backwards, tries to encourage him to keep going. The shimmering edge of her orgasm starts to ebb, recedes from where she can reach it, and its absence has her chest heaving with more than just the disappointment in its evading her.

“Please,” she mutters, and she’s not sure what she’s asking for with this one word. She’ll take whatever Lucanis offers. The thought barrels through her and she chokes on a cry, lets her head fall forward in the hopes that he won’t see the tears gathering at the corner of her eyes.

If he asks, tonight, she’ll stay. She’s half a breath away from offering, herself. And it’s not the sex, the desperation, that has her realizing how badly she wants this. It’s his lips at her temple, the salt water she knows he must taste there, the knowledge that she has wandered half the world for over a year and found nothing she wants to claim as her own more than this.

Than him, and the workshops beneath the manor that hold every instrument the Watch was willing to part with when she left; the certainty that they all still wait for her there, that they’ve likely been kept clean and polished even in her absence; the feeling of satisfaction, when shadows yield to her touch and the secrets locked under frozen tongues reveal themselves to her. The warmth of this room, the tender caress of his hands along her torso and shoulder.

“Lucanis,” she begs, again, unable to keep the tears from her voice this time. “I need you,” she admits, and for once — for once — she hopes he sees the whole picture of what she is asking for. Knows now’s not the time, but that later she will have to stop mincing words and lay her heart on the table for him.

“Tell me,” he asks, and his voice is just as raw, seeking. He moves just a little, twitches inside her with the restraint, his balls tightening between them. “Promise,” he says.

“I promise,” and before she finishes speaking he’s sighing with relief, the tension bleeding out of him just enough that he slumps against her, and a wet heat floods her cunt, too much and too hot to be cum. And he’s hard, still, stretching her almost more than she can bear as he keeps filling her until it’s leaking out between them. She’s filled to the brim, and as liquid runs down her inner thighs she realizes he’s not done.

“Keep going,” she breathes, bending forward as he leans to follow her, wrapping her fists around the iron bars of their headboard, bracing herself.

When he thrusts into her again, the pressure and the suction snaps, and his piss rushes out of her, the wet smacking of his hips against her backside wringing a keening moan out of her as she flutters around him. It reaches her ankles, her heels, the arch of her foot, cooling rapidly against her skin, and he goes still again. Flexes against her and she’s still so full, so hot, and yet he spills more into her. She clenches around him, listens to the wild, desperate sound that he offers her at that, as it seals her to him for a moment, keeps him close, surrounded by the mix of them. She releases, and he pulls out, piss pouring from between them with a splash, soaking the sheets beneath them, until he’s poised against her again, pushing into her. Fucking her hard, relentless, hands roaming over every inch of her as she moves her hips back to meet each of his forward thrusts, as golden liquid empties out of her each time his thighs meet the swell of her ass.

She cums so hard her vision blurs, and he fucks her through it, whispering her own name into her skin, chanting promises of his own that she can’t make sense of now. Not with the scent of him all over her, not with her orgasm sending shock waves through her whole system. Not with him still thrusting into her until his own release finds him, fills her again with a different sort of heat. Thicker, cloying, just as satisfying.

They do not rest, after. Instead, Lucanis guides her on shaking legs to the bathroom attached to their chambers, returns to strip the linens and leave them crumpled on the balcony to launder himself in the morning. He draws a bath, wipes them both down with a warm, lavender scented cloth, thumbs away the tears that still track down her cheeks as he kneels before her. They are silent, for the rest of the evening, hands finding each other in soft caresses — reminders that they are both here — as they bathe, dress, walk down the hall to a spare bedroom and curl into each other there. Spite is silent, too, though Daphne can feel he is less discontented. Wary, but hopeful. 
In the morning, they will talk. Tonight, she lets herself sleep in the circle of his arms, lets herself hold onto this moment, to him, without fear.