Tagged by @slothquisitor - hi I'm not ready for Halfway to be over 🥲 and thank you for the tag!
Tagging @krisichiki @zylphiacrowley @ambalambs @krys-in-the-playhouse if you guys are down and doing anything? G-pose stuff if I'm getting that right?? Art? Fics? Crochet? 👀
For once, I have nothing really new-ish on the drawing board that I haven't already shared or finished (mostly just been coming home from work and conking out), but since I've been using ellipsus I can write during my short breaks at the office, so have two things from the writing board (because I like posting in twos apparently), and since the brain jumps all over the place and the last fics made sloth wanna throw her hands in the air at the dumb birds let's pivot to some Yearning Olympics.
He does not want to admit it. He knows what this feeling is, he felt it before for another de Riva of all people, long ago. Perhaps to a lesser degree there, but here? Here he does not want to acknowledge it, as doing so upsets the balance of what they are now: comfortable, simple, fun. Impossibly rare.
She is his friend. His silly and earnest and most intimate friend. He's never been more open with anyone, and she trusts him with all of herself — her physical safety, her secrets, her feelings. He will not betray that. He does not dare ruin what they have. It is enough. What they are is more than enough.
But he is apparently a weaker man than he once was, as he cannot help the way his eyes search for her in a room. He cannot help the way he inevitably finds himself near her. He cannot help but want to listen to her speak of anything and everything. The desperation in his voice as he shouts for her in the middle of a fight, to go to her immediately. The desire to feel her press the length of her arm against his, line up their scars and share secrets and stories, again and again until there is nothing left to learn, and they know each other as well as they know themselves. Study every detail about her, every twitch of the ear, every half smile, every furrow of her brow, the shape of her fingers, her neck, her lips — commit everything to memory and hold onto them for dear life.
They're close. They're friends. What they are is perfect. What he's found in her is more than what he could've asked for. He shouldn't, he knows he shouldn't, but he cannot help but want more.
What is it about Lucanis that compels her so? What is it that he does so effortlessly, perhaps even unintentionally, quietly, that has every part of her aching to be close to him? To want to be closer to him, still, however he'll let her. To hold every precious storied detail about him close to her chest? To write it in her marrow? To know him as well as she knows herself? To be seen by him? To give parts of herself to him, lay them at his feet and hope she isn't deluding herself in thinking he picks them all up and takes them with him? What is it about him that has her reaching out to him, needing to feel him with her? To connect with him? Why does he let her? Why hasn't he push her away like all the people before? Like Viago?
What is it about him that she craves so hopelessly? That has her doing whatever she can to see his rare smile, if only for a fleeting moment? That has her ready to fight for him? Kill for him? To ease his burdens? To help him, however she can? To support him through his sorrows, his hardships? To see him happy?
And how is it the mere thought of him brings her so much joy? So much peace? What is it about him that delights her so?
Viago would seethe if he found out, if a single thought of hers about Lucanis were ever to reach his ears. He would tell her, over and over, that she's being foolish, that the Demon of Vyrantium is a dangerous man.
But if he's so dangerous, why does she feel so safe with him?
It was a fun change of pace writing Amri and Viago's relationship in an uglier shade in the last number compared to how in mylittlemonster it's all about how they bond and grow closer and how he's nice to her in his own awkward way lol
Lucanis Dellamorte & Rook de Riva, ft. mentions of Illario; Blue-eyed Antivan Crow almost-brothers can be quite frustrating. 4.5k w.
[in relation to this fun yarn 🐦⬛🐝 (mind the warnings), which isn't required reading but everything makes a bit more sense]
🐦⬛🐦⬛...🐦⬛
Illario, for the longest time, was the only person he ever truly considered a friend. He supposes his cousin might not technically count, given that they share blood, but throughout Lucanis's entire life, it was him. The one he trusted, the one he knew. The one who knew him in turn, who had his back — the one who was always there. His brother. His best friend. He had plenty of polite acquaintances, but they weren't friends. Not like Illario. No one came close.
But the moment Rook casually referred to them as friends, something shifted for Lucanis. Small and obvious, what with how easily they get along, but he wasn't ready, somehow. People, after all, come in three categories: family, enemies, and contracts. She was always just a contract — associate. His chatty associate, so eager and ready to help. So attentive to the needs of those around her, himself included. So full of smiles and awful jokes. At least on the surface. Not unusual for a Crow, but he'd never been close to one before.
When he was a boy, he enjoyed quite a few adventure novels. His interest gradually shifted to romance with age, but in his adventure novels, the lead character always had a loyal companion — their truest friend. For him, when he imagined his future, going on contracts, he always pictured Illario by his side. He fixed himself, sometimes, into his adventure novels, and his cousin was always his companion. Even as they grew older, even as they began to grow in different ways and his cousin would start on things —ideas about their future, questions about where things would go— it was always Illario. His only friend. Before her.
Rook is adaptable — to him, to their team. Learns to work with and around others in fights, in their personal lives. She studies, and then adjusts. He found her very unlike her Talon, so set in his ways, commanding and unrelenting, something he admired long ago. It took some getting used to — a de Riva that accommodates, so easily, so effortlessly, in combat, in conversation. Curious. Easygoing. Amicable. Comfortable.
At some point, talking to Illario became uncomfortable. Not impossible, but he understood that some things were better kept to himself. Jokes stopped landing as they used to — there was less of a back and forth, replaced with a fond exasperation. Not unwarm, but different. Perhaps he outgrew his wit. His cousin —his brother— he still had things to say, though. Eventually he started pushing. About Caterina, about their lives. And then, eventually, him. His manner, his choices, his devotion to his work, how he does all that Caterina orders of him, his lack of social engagements, his taste — in all things. When his cousin pushed, he braced. It wasn't anything he couldn't handle, but it was different. Eventually, it became normal. Illario is family, after all. He loves him. It's simply how he was now.
He braced, with Rook. Found that he didn't need to. It was strange.
He writes to Illario, though the letters are largely all business. To discuss their house's affairs, Caterina's last wishes, her directions with the resistance. He's never been good at talking, but Illario knows him, and Crows don't put feelings to paper. His cousin's responses are vague at best — tells him he'll handle everything, that he had been since he was gone, and that he should focus on his contract. He doesn't question it — this is how things will be once the job's over, his cousin as First Talon, but even when he can return to Treviso, Illario is off — doing something or some other. Busy. Preoccupied. Gone. He knows it is how things will be.
It's lonely, though. He always had him, and now he doesn't. Not really. Not like he used to.
Rook, in turn, became familiar. A piece of the Crows and Antiva around with him as he stretched his legs with his newfound freedom. New and unknown to him, but the Antivan blues, the blades, the poisons, the measured steps, even the way she looks at him, the way she talks to him with that slight romantic Antivan lilt, buried beneath the casual performance of Rook the character, is recognizable. Familiar. And with a demon inside him now, throwing everything into disarray, it helps to have a few things he can predict.
She is, however, pushy like Illario. Unlike his brother, however, she doesn't push at how he is, she pushes with a more delicate touch, and to know. Rather than sigh, exasperation at knowing him for years, she inquires, attentive to every detail. Instead of harping on about how he never budges, she shares parts of herself in offering, and slowly, he actually budges — gives in return. He never had anyone to really talk to — Illario was there in all his stories, every experience he had Illario also experienced. There was no need to discuss what was shared — known. And the small handful of instances where he tried to open up to other people all ended disastrously. He learned to keep to himself quickly, so telling Rook anything was novel. Different. She understood. He could share. Say things he never thought merited acknowledgement before. Laugh in some twisted, broken way. Just talk. Get things off his chest he never knew sat there for so long.
So naturally something in him was… excited at the prospect of his oldest friend getting to know his newest. For the one he tells his stories to meet the other person in so many of them. That first instance at Café Pietra wasn't bad, even if it was all business, and even if he cousin left abruptly. She handled it well. They could get along. But when he sees Illario approach her, when his and his cousin's eyes meet from across the Diamond and Illario smirks at him knowingly, something feels wrong.
Teia and Viago's words fade as he watches his cousin. Rook is with Fletcher, browsing their gloves to replace the pair that were torn beyond repair in their last skirmish. Illario interjects, the conversation easy as he effortlessly includes himself. His eyes fall on her face as she speaks. His hand takes her hand, likely to observe the injury that tore her glove. He brings it to his lips and gently presses a kiss to the back — bandaged skin. Lucanis watches his cousin pull back and say something about kissing a wound better. He says something else about gloves, surely, as Fletcher chuckles and guides them both towards a crate.
Something bothers Lucanis. Greatly.
Rook is his friend. Despite the short amount of time they've known each other, they'd become close. There are things only Crows would understand, and it's been refreshing for him to be around someone familiar enough to be comfortable and easy, but unknown to him that there is no measure of judgment. She cannot and does not act like she knows who he was to scrutinize who he is now, and after everything at the ossuary, now sharing his body, it... helps. To be understood to a degree, but not fully known to be judged. To learn himself again, and not have expectations of who he was held against him. To tell her who he is at his own pace. It also helps that they train together regularly. Something about bleeding together and a high risk contract brings people closer, he supposes. And with the amount of training sessions between them, the amount of blows exchanged, bruises given, blood spilled, even, the amount of times they spend together to patch each other up, their shared baths after, and the conversations they have there in private —in secret, in a way— he considers them to be rather intimate friends.
But Illario has always been the charmer between them. Somehow he could always bend anyone to his tune.
Spite had wandered to Rook earlier, always disinterested in the Talons. He sniffs and lurks around her, passing through Illario with neither of them the wiser. Even with the demon giving him some distance, he still feels like something is squeezing at his insides, occupying the space he breathes, pushing him against the walls of his body as he watches.
His friend, another one of his cousin's dalliances.
Would she be equally enamoured with his cousin as some of the others? Or would it be another strictly physical arrangement as his cousin told him? Would she leave the Lighthouse regularly to meet him and return in the morning? Would he come to the Lighthouse instead? Would he stay for breakfast before departing? Would they talk? What would they talk about? Would she start sharing her scars and stories with him instead? Or would his cousin set her aside once he's had his fill, like the rest?
He loves Illario. He may not fully understand why he moves through partners more rapidly than he does boots and blades, but he loves him.
But Rook is his friend. Close friend. Good friend. Intimate friend — his friend who trusted him with quite a few stories about herself that he can only imagine, and is grateful never happened to him. Things that, even as a Crow himself, he cannot begin to understand, or his cousin, which only makes Illario's advances towards her —things he's done and said to countless other people before her— all the more flippant. Unconcerned. To his cousin's credit, Illario does not know her, does not know the things she's told him, and Lucanis has no intention of betraying her confidence on the slim chance his cousin might actually be serious about engaging with her. He knows he isn't. Illario is serious about very few things, and romance is not one of them. He loves his cousin, but he thinks Rook deserves better. Friends look out for one another.
However, Rook is a grown woman who can take care of herself. Her affairs are her own business, not his. He has no right to be so defensive, even if he thinks he knows her. No right to be so protective. So bothered. So territorial of her — his friend. He has no right to be. No reason.
Right?
The most he can do is inform her of his cousin's behaviour, and support her in whatever she chooses. Ultimately, that's what friends do, and she is one of his precious few.
—
A handful of hours later, plans made to coordinate a search for the missing qamek, they bid their farewells, and with a new set of gloves on her hands, Rook takes a few steps to join him, glancing over her shoulder. When Lucanis looks back, he sees his cousin, whose eyes shift between the two of them. He nods at Illario who returns the gesture, and when Lucanis glances at Rook, he notices her watching them both. For a brief moment, her eyes meet Illario's before she smiles politely. Sweetly. Lucanis looks at his cousin who has an easy grin on his face, but having grown up with him, he knows precisely what it means, so confident and satisfied. He and Rook enter the Fade.
Once they're some twenty steps away from the Treviso eluvian, however, Rook finally speaks. "Lucanis?"
"Yes?"
"Your cousin."
He takes a soft breath, bracing for something he isn't quite sure of. "What about him?"
"Hypothetically," she starts, "would you be offended if I maybe, might, possibly, sometime in the near future perhaps, allegedly…"
"Rook."
She smiles innocently. "…poisoned him?"
Oh.
"Excuse me?"
"He won't die or anything, I promise. Stomach pains. His liver will be perfectly fine. I can even give him something to boost liver function, in fact. I'm a professional. Obviously."
"Dare I ask why you wish to bring harm to my last surviving family member?"
"Well when you say it like that it sounds awful."
"Rook."
"Because he was making a pass at me and I didn't like the way he was going about it in the slightest." She huffs.
He knows he should be far more upset his new friend and colleague evidently has designs to bring some manner of harm to his sole remaining relative, but her delivery — fussy, earnest, seeking his permission, and the pettiness of it all. Stomach pains. Really.
Is it odd he finds it strangely endearing?
"Are you offended or are you criticizing his technique?"
"A little bit of both, if I'm being honest," she admits. He raises a brow at her. "Game recognizes game. Or in your cousin's case, it does not. I'm offended he thought any of the things he did would actually work. I've been doing all of that since I was a child. I can tell when someone thinks they can toy with me, at the very least, and I'm much less inclined to give the benefit of the doubt nowadays, too. I don't know if you know, but it's not a nice feeling, and I'm not looking to be someone's plaything again anytime soon."
"That's fair," he concedes. "I'd rather you didn't poison my cousin, but I can talk to him, if you'd like."
"It's not that important. Maybe he was just bored. Wouldn't be the first time."
He nods, but with everything he knows about her, the idea of his cousin toying with her out of boredom bothers him even more. Though not nearly as much as it seems to have bothered her, and he will not fight her on that at all. Not unless she actually moves to poison him.
That, and he isn't certain he would know how to talk to Illario about her. What would he even say? He could say his advances offended her, but Illario would likely prefer to confront her head on in that case, and he would rather the two people he's fond of not come into conflict. He has a feeling it could get quite messy. Would he tell his cousin to stop being courteous to his friend? Because he knows Illario will see it that way — frame it that way. That he's being defensive and paranoid about nothing. That friends are not exclusive.
"I am sorry if my cousin's advances were reminiscent of any unsavoury experiences," he says carefully. She's right — he doesn't know how it feels to have someone try and toy with him in this way. Not like her. Not when he was younger when they would've had the power to, and certainly not now. When she says she has no interest in being someone's plaything again, she means it. He will support her however she'll let him. He can understand to a degree why she reacted as she did.
"You're so wonderfully soft sometimes. Very unbecoming of an assassin." The words are barely teasing, coming out quietly, tenderly, fondly, as she bumps his shoulder with hers. Good — the sentiment reached her.
"You won't tell."
"No, your secrets are safe with me." She grins at him. "And thank you. Only ever had one other man really think about my feelings, and he's since stopped. Wasn't always very good at it either, but I loved him anyway."
"Loved? Has it since stopped?"
"No, just… changed. In a way I don't really understand." She shakes her head. "Brothers can be very confusing."
He hums. "Very."
"And I promise I won't poison your cousin, even with something nonlethal. I know you love him."
"Thank you." He can't help but chuckle a little at how dejected she sounds. "Viago did tell me you were a bit of a handful. I did not understand until now."
Her eyes widen. "He did? What else did he say? That man doesn't do single-word insults. I bet it's all bad. I don't want to know. Wait—I need to know."
He chuckles, recalls how her Talon very reluctantly admitted she could be a handful after debriefing him about the situation in Antiva, specifics in Treviso, as well as how they were coordinating with Rook's team on their job. Viago likely didn't want to admit any faults out of professionalism, to not damage the reputation of his house. A handful didn't really cover it, not that her bursting with unabashed colour and personality is a bad thing necessarily. Maybe when he was younger, when he was more enamoured with the older de Riva, he would agree with his assessment. But now? He never knew having a talkative and dramatic friend would be so thoroughly entertaining. Or comfortable. He always thought they were rather obnoxious and insensitive, but he's glad to be proven wrong.
"Nothing bad."
"He can't complain about nothing bad."
"Viago can."
She makes a face. "…That's true."
They reach the dock, and Lucanis gets into the boat first, offering her a hand to help her down. Once they're seated next to other, when the Caretaker sets off, he speaks up again. "May I ask you something?"
"Always."
"When we left, you… smiled at my cousin. Why?"
"Well if you were going to let me poison him, then I wouldn't want to give anything away, now would I?"
"Fair enough."
"And just… being careful, I guess."
"What do you mean?"
"Your cousin was surprisingly persistent for someone entirely disinterested."
"…Maybe he was genuinely interested in you," Lucanis says, although he finds the words a little uncomfortable to get out. Why would he be? Rook is not without her charms, but his cousin has only encountered her a handful of times, and Illario is not a man of romantic commitments. He never fixated on someone for a casual encounter either — he could find others easily. Still, Lucanis feels the need to defend his cousin from whatever suspicions Rook has of him, even if he's also on her side. If her instincts are correct, it is strange to be persistent. What did he want?
"Oh, I highly doubt that." The words are quiet but dry, spoken with years of tired experience. And he, for his part, has witnessed his cousin at work countless times, and from what he could tell, Illario was using his usual routine on her. He wasn't really trying — wasn't really interested. "I don't want or need another Dellamorte close by anyway. I already have you, and you're my favourite."
"So you keep telling me."
"You better not doubt it."
"Is that a threat?"
"No, but you'll hurt my feelings." She grins at him. He shakes his head slightly.
"You're much too soft. Very unbecoming of an assassin."
"So I've heard, but you won't tell now will you?"
He hums. He's tempted to parrot more of her words back to her, tell her he won't because she might be his favourite as well, mostly in jest — see how she reacts. Unlike Illario, whose reactions eventually dwindled down to just that familiar exasperation, hers are a wide range of emotion. Sometimes delighted, sometimes indignant. Sometimes her awful sense of humour strongarms its way in. Sometimes she pouts —actually pouts— like a grumpy kitten, and he cannot take her seriously when she does. There's more of a back and forth —a longer engagement— with her where his cousin would simply end the exchange. She never seems to mind when he teases her, enjoys their light little verbal spars, and Crow humour is never too dark with another Crow. It's playful. Teasing. Light. Things to laugh about are in short supply these days, anyway.
But it occurs to him, then, that she might actually be — his favourite, that is. No one else knows him quite like she does. Even now, as he readjusts with Spite, learns himself again. No one listens as intently, stomachs the things he's both been through and done quite like she does. Her hands are just as red, after all. And he, in turn, knows her quite well. He's never really considered why she insists on telling him he's her favourite so often, but he realizes that she's trusted him with quite a bit of herself, and like him, understands how difficult it is to share any of that with anyone. To give so much of herself to make him feel comfortable with her, he thinks, because he never would have shared much with her in the first place. To take that risk with him — Crows always fight. To be trusted so is significant. He's only ever had Illario for that. So to be known by her, to know her in turn — to share anything with her, and the things she's shared with him? He will not betray that.
Perhaps his cousin knew that her attention is worth having. Maybe he could tell. Maybe that's why he was so insistent. And Lucanis realizes, then, as much as he hates to admit it, that there's a part of him that's not ready to lose her to his brother. Because it wouldn't be the first time. When they were younger, in the rare instances he developed an interest in or the even rarer tangible attachment to someone, thin and new as it was, somehow they inevitably gravitated towards Illario. Every time, without fail. Friends, the rare individual he had an interest in, it did not matter. They'd meet him, meet the more outgoing Dellamorte, and then they'd latch onto the more charming of the two for however long it lasted. Not very.
Viago was the exception. That didn't go anywhere, however, but he also didn't tell his cousin about his interest in the older de Riva. He knew Illario would have some type of comment ready on his taste, and maybe he was also concerned Viago would follow like the rest, not that he and him ever got very close. Not like Rook. Not that he's interested in the younger de Riva this time around. She's his friend. Maybe all de Rivas are outliers.
"Tell me something," he says quietly.
"Anything in particular?"
"That I leave to you."
"Rook. Stories."
Ah, there he is.
She turns to face him, inches closer in her seat by the smallest of margins next to him. Something on his face must give him away, because she's already searching for whatever troubles him. He watches her search his face, the way her eyes flicker about his features — his cheek, his forehead. She really does look at him for long stretches. To find something, to discover something. The way that she looks at him is so new. Although, everything with her is new, like when they first met in the ossuary. And he supposes there is some relief, every time she looks at him — to learn him, to want to learn him, react to him, tuck everything she wants of him away for later, bring them back up again in earnest, with kindness. To bond, and just… know him. To share in things with him. To connect. He does not want to lose it. He's not ready to lose the first person other than his brother to ever really look at him long enough to see him.
She leans back, and he wonders what her findings are. She looks down for a brief moment before speaking. "I used to fight boys like your cousin. And win."
He snorts. An unserious topic — he appreciates it. Spite also seems thrilled with the way he hums. "You didn't."
"I'll have you know I was quite skilled in the art of making boys cry, thank you very much. Gifted, even. Still am. Just with grown men nowadays." She turns her chin up just slightly, prideful and just a touch huffy at the insult of his doubt. He chuckles. "I grew up with other girls — girls who were bought with me. We were like sisters in that, so we looked out for each other the same way."
"Make. Boys CRY."
He nods, finds her little smile of fondness catching, feels the twitch at the corner of his lips as he recalls, as a boy, Illario coming to defend him, and he for his cousin. Like brothers. Scraped knees and hands, bruises.
"Boys were not very nice," she says. Her gaze is somewhere else entirely. "They were all the same."
"I was a boy once."
"Were you ever cruel to any girls?" She raises a brow at him, challenging. Teasing. "Choose your words carefully, Dellamorte, or we might have a problem here."
"Are you saying you're willing to fight me for some past transgressions?" That he had not committed —to his knowledge— although he wants to see where she'll take this.
"Well I don't want to."
"Because you know you'll lose?"
"Because I like you, but you keep telling yourself that."
He rolls his eyes. He wins majority of their sparring matches. "I take from your remarkable amount of confidence that you bested most, then."
"Wasn't even a competition." Her smugness earns another little chuckle from him. Spite huddles closer to her, grinning at the violence. "I did, admittedly, fall prey to quite a few myself."
"I hope you set things right with them, then."
"Only some."
"Oh?"
"I was young. And not the wisest." Her voice is quiet, a grimace of a smile on her face. "If you'll recall."
That has him pressing his knee to hers. He does recall their very intimate conversation. She smiles a little at the gesture, eyes on the connection. "You still haven't given me any of their names."
That gets a laugh out of her, and then some. Bright, warm, and even unsteady as she bumps into him in her fits. "I'm considering it now."
"On what condition?"
"If your cousin ever makes another pass at me, can I punch him?"
"Make. Him. Cry."
"You promised no harm would come to him."
"I said I wasn't going to poison him. Physical fights are a different matter entirely."
"Don't."
"Kick him in the groin at least?"
"…No."
"You hesitated." She gives him this awful little look — big brown eyes, pleading as she stares up at him, pouting just slightly, like a stray begging for scraps. A cat demanding attention. Hopeful and devious.
It's not going to work on him. It's not. But he'll give her something.
"I did hesitate."
Both she and Spite grin at the prospect of violence.
They arrive back at the Lighthouse, docking. Lucanis gets up and out the boat first, offers her a hand that she takes. He grip tightens just slightly when he helps her up. He is quite fond of her, he thinks —feels— as her fingers slip from his grasp, safely out of the little boat, warmth just ever so slightly out of reach, but if he asked, she would return it to him. He's sure of it. Part of him thinks to, but another pushes it aside immediately.
He has her, still. He's fond of her, he likes her, she might even be his favourite, just as he, evidently, is hers. She won't suddenly lost all interest in their bond. She won't look at Illario and suddenly be charmed. Evidently she only looks at him like a target to hit.
Rook de Riva, Viago de Riva, & Lucanis Dellamorte; Blue-eyed Antivan Crow almost-brothers can be quite frustrating. 4.5k w.
🐦⬛🐦⬛...🐦⬛
Viago is absolute ass with his words sometimes. It's really some type of miracle Teia adores him as much as she does. And herself, though sometimes she wonders if all the poisons and drugs she's taken throughout her life has anything to do with it. If she were an outsider, if she wasn't actually there next to him as he rose through the ranks of their house, she'd call bullshit if someone told her the members of House de Riva elected him to be Grandmaster. Always curt, always expecting her to understand with little to no explanation. Short, barely to the point, and icy — she had to learn his moods through his tells. He wasn't exactly like this when they were younger, but in their later years?
Ass.
Her Talon, grandmaster, master, and brother in all but blood takes her by the elbow and guides her into a secluded hall without a single word. Ass. If she didn't know the man in her bones she wouldn't know that she wasn't in trouble — the grip on her elbow is normal, his steps unhurried, though the way he leans forward so much so that it modifies his gait suggests a rather serious discussion is ahead of her. He stops them at a suitable spot, steps away, checking the halls twice over before coming back. After his eyes scan the area one final time, he looks at her.
"So?"
"So…?"
Ass. This man is ass with his words sometimes. He grumbles at her, and she, of course, grumbles in turn.
"How are things?"
"I'm okay? You don't ask how I'm doing," she says slowly, suspiciously, as de Rivas are wont to do. He shipped her off with a flavourless and cold letter with vague instructions. She had to ask Varric what was going on immediately after formally meeting him. "I'm not blighted or injured. I'm well rested. I ate."
He flicks her forehead. It's too familiar, and she doesn't like how it kicks the inside of her chest. Hard, and with yearning. She smothers the feeling immediately. "Not that, idiot."
"Then be more specific?"
He sighs. "How have you been faring with Lucanis?"
"Fine?"
"Fine? 'Fine' can mean many things."
"What, you think I'm going spit in his food and pick fights with him when you're not around to keep me in line?" He crosses his arms and gives her a look. "…That was one time."
"It was four times."
Four human mercenaries who were much too fatheaded, arrogant, and wholly disrespectful, thinking they had the right to be as rough as they wanted with any courtesan they saw, who were together when she encountered them, so: it only happened the one time. "They deserved it."
"Does Lucanis Dellamorte deserve any of your ire?"
"I haven't spit in his food or picked a single fight with him, if that's what you're asking." Not personally picking any fights, but they do train together. Those obviously don't count. She's considering spitting in her Talon's food, though, should the opportunity present itself. Viago squares her with another look, the twitchy annoyed eyebrow one that demands she take the inquiry seriously. "We're fine. We're great, even. What does it even matter to you how well I get along with another Crow anyway?"
"Rook," he says slowly, as though the name is still foreign to him, "it is important that you conduct yourself with the utmost professionalism around him."
"Because Caterina's gone and control is currently splintered right now as they reorganize, I know." She rolls her eyes. It'd make more sense for him to lecture her about how she conducts herself with the other Talons, considering most of them are new, and he, Teia, and Caterina were the ones organizing the resistance. The late First Talon was already on board, and Lucanis said he wouldn't defy her last orders.
"Not that. I know you know that." Viago sighs, pinching his brow.
"Then what?" She asks, exasperated, but it occurs to her that Viago has always been exceedingly careful around Lucanis in the short amount of time she's seen them together. Meticulous and professional, and not the least bit unpleasant, which he is well known for. "Do you have a bone to pick with him?"
"No."
"Did you cross him or something?" She pushes, suddenly more interested in the conversation. Her Talon's shoulders twitch ever so slightly. Ha. One of his more obvious tells. "What did you do? What happened?"
"Nothing," he says curtly. He's hiding something. Fascinating.
"Did he do something to you?"
"…No."
"You hesitated," she pins immediately. "Wait, did he… did he ever cross our house…?"
"No."
"Then what?" She asks again. "Did he steal someone you were interested in or something?"
"No."
…Defensive.
"I mean he could. He's dark, brooding, and actually quite charming, and you're, well… you." She snickers at her own comment, earning her a shove to her forehead. Still too familiar of a gesture, but she has missed it. Him. The bickering. Not that she'll admit that to him for the foreseeable future. Not that he cares, either. "If you're not going to tell me, I'll just have to keep guessing."
And each guess will get more and more insufferably outlandish. He knows it.
"Just," he starts, grumbling, "behave yourself with him."
"I do."
"I'm serious, Amri," he says, voice low. She freezes at the mention of her name. The last time she heard him say it, he had a whip in his hand and she was chained to the ground, orders passed down and ready to be followed without hesitation. "He is a dangerous man."
"Excuse me, but I'm also dangerous?" She raises a brow at him. Despite the considerable amount of training matches she's lost to Lucanis, she can at least hold her own with him for a while. She has won a decent amount, in fact, just not the majority. And with proper planning? If it comes down to it, she thinks can handle herself.
"Amri."
"I don't answer to that."
"You just did." He clears his throat, lifts a hand awkwardly, seemingly debating with himself on whether to put it on her shoulder or not. It used to be that he would be fine with these touches. No less awkward, but less hesitation. Viago doesn't do touch, even with most of their house, but she was always an exception. She was always familiar to him — safe. Ever since she was a child. Maybe not anymore. He does finally place the hand on her shoulder, and it feels wrong with the way things are between them. Even when she knows that, she can't help the hopeful thought that maybe he's trying to mend things, but Viago doesn't do apologies. Not unless it's serious, and someone usually has to die for that, in which case he's offering his condolences, not actually apologizing for anything. "Do not offend him. Do not anger him, do not push him. Maintain your distance as best you can while being cordial."
"Okay, but what if I'm already close to him?"
Viago's brows furrow at her words. "How close?"
"Pretty close?" They're friends. What does it even matter how close they are? She won't be offending or betraying him any time soon, and he is not an unreasonable or petty man. She's the petty one, and she quite likes him. There's nothing to worry about.
"In what way are you, of all people, close with the Demon of Vyrantium?"
She does not miss what he's insinuating about her, and it gets on her nerves just enough. He's also kept her in this hall for quite some time for a pointless conversation. She promised to help Emmrich with something.
"He and I are quite close, actually. Intimate, even."
"…How?"
"Emotionally? Physically, too, I suppose. Philosophically. Metaphorically. Theoretically. Figuratively. Who knows. Can I go now?"
"Physic—physically?" His eyes widen.
"Yes, we're very intimate friends, Viago. Relax." She scoffs. "Can I leave? I actually have something to do. People aren't dying."
"Amri, I told you to be on your best behaviour with him and you go and sleep with—"
"What? No! I'm not—we're just friends, Viago. Friends."
"Emotionally and physically intimate friends?" He throws at her. "As you claim."
This man so fucking ass with his words.
"And philosophically?" It's a weak attempt. He is not amused. She knows he might've found it a little funny if they weren't as… out of sorts as they are now.
"Amri. The truth."
"Physical as in training." She rolls her eyes. It's so obvious, but of course he would jump to the most outlandish conclusion. "I haven't been home in over a year and we're chasing gods. Do you expect me to not train with him? The Demon of Vyrantium, famed mage killer? Do you have any idea how difficult it's been not being able to train with another Crow? How sloppy I've gotten in just a little over a year?"
She'll leave out the part where she's taken more baths with the Demon of Vyrantium after most of their training sessions than she can count on two hands, and how they stay there and talk at length about any number of things, many of which are deeply personal.
"Emotionally close, then? Intimate, even?" The words are accusations. Viago crosses his arms, watching her expectantly. She sighs.
"Lucanis is my friend, Viago." She doesn't bother putting any attitude into a single word. Doesn't need to. "You threw me out of the country and I haven't been able to see, much less speak to another Crow. Not even send letters home. He's nice to me, and no, before you say it, I'm not throwing myself at the first boy to give me the time of day. Maybe being away from home, unsure if he'll ever be able to go back, and cut off from his family is something he just understands."
Viago's eyes drift away for a moment before he regards her again. "Amri, getting close to him is not wise—"
"I'm already pretty close to him, so? What? I should stop being friends with him? Wouldn't that offend him? You just told me not to do that."
He sighs, frowning more, somehow, gaze icy. He takes a moment before speaking again. "So long as you conduct yourself professionally, I suppose it does not matter what you do with him."
Fucking ass with his fucking words.
He knows exactly what he's doing — what he's saying. He knows her, and he knows that deep down, despite her best efforts to hide it or pretend otherwise, she still craves his approval, so she'll want to do things right — his version of whatever right is. To be on his good side, because she's always had him, and his good side is something reserved for a small few — something hard earned. Acting like he doesn't care so she works harder just so he'll look at her, pay attention to her, be proud of her, care about her. Predictable little Amri, still throwing herself at the very first boy to ever really give her the time of day, all those years ago.
But she knows him, too, and if he's going to be like this, then fine. As the shorter of the two of them, she will not be the bigger person. She couldn't possibly be. She doesn't even have to lie.
"You know, I wasn't sure you'd ever let me set foot back in Antiva, so I'm grateful I got to look for him. I'm grateful he's as gracious with me as he is, unlike someone else. He's polite, he isn't condescending, so is it really any wonder that I like him as much as I do? Someone set the bar remarkably low." She watches as the ice in her Talon's gaze slowly start to boil. Good. "I don't know why you came to the conclusion that he and I were sleeping together, quite inappropriate and unprofessional, really. The thought genuinely never crossed my mind. But apparently you've thought about it, so thank you, Viago, for putting that into my head, too. Who knows? Maybe I will throw myself at this boy—this man, who's given me the time of day. Who actually looks at me. At least I know he won't push me away. Evidently that's something only family does."
He gives. Slightly. She can see the shift in his frown.
"Do not get any ideas."
"But you're the one giving me ideas, and I thought you said it didn't matter what I do with him."
"Fine. It does matter. I am not joking, though, Rook. Don't you do anything with him." He regards her with a specific look she's always disliked. It's a sort knowing look, but also tired and exasperated, tinged with the slightest bit of disappointment. The one that tells her that he knows her, that she's doing something stupid again. The worst part is that he's usually always been right. "Now that I know the thought has crossed your mind—"
"Don't start. You put it out there in the fi—"
"No, you — you don't start. Anything. With him. For any reason — spite, pettiness, a genuine interest. I know you. Don't you dare." He sighs, the authority slips just slightly from his voice, and he speaks to her a fraction more softly, like they're five years younger. She hates it. She misses it. "I say this for your own good, seeing as how you are already close to the man: be careful around him. He is a truly dangerous person, and I know you crave connection, you always have, but you have a habit of forming attachments to all the wrong people. You do not want to get involved with House Dellamorte. And be wary of any of his knives."
"What?"
"Teia and I will write if there are any updates."
He turns her by the shoulders and keeps his hands on them as he marches her back to the main hall. She knows this means the discussion is over and he will simply ignore any of her questions. She hates that he holds onto her the way he does — the way she always liked because she craved some explicit show of affection from him, so of course he does it right after a lengthy disagreement. Right after he threw that in her face before closing the matter.
So ass with his words.
—
She can feel Lucanis's eyes on her as they walk to the boat and Caretaker.
What did Viago mean by 'be wary of any of his knives'? He and Lucanis must've had some sort of falling out or a heated disagreement. Maybe Teia would know. He's never this cordial and agreeable to anyone —except Teia, but she knows the nature of their relationship— so what is it about Lucanis that has him so on edge? The way Lucanis speaks of him, he doesn't regard him particularly poorly, and the man is not an exceptional liar. He has quite a few tells, just like her Talon.
"Rook?" Lucanis's voice interrupts her string of theories, of all the instances her Talon had left Salle to collaborate with other houses. "Is everything all right?"
"Yeah. Kind of. Maybe?" She searches her words, but at least with Lucanis she can take her time to sort through them. She lets out an exasperated laugh, one she desperately needs. "Things with my brother—my Talon."
Lucanis hums. They arrive at the dock, and he gets into the boat first, offers her a hand. She looks at it for a moment, Viago's words echoing in her mind before a sense of rebellion fills her and she takes it, and he helps her down. Lucanis hasn't always done this, typically keeping to himself, but after they'd gotten closer, he started to. He's a gentleman. He's kind. And she thinks it's his way of reaching out to her — she enjoys touch, closeness. She's been careful about it with him, but he understands her well enough to know what she likes, and she appreciates that he's willing to meet her half way. That, and they've exchanged enough blows in their training sessions to consider each other physically intimate. They've made each other bleed — that's close, so she's never not taken his hand when he offers it. Screw what Viago said. She doesn't like that she's already considered his words on pulling back.
Lucanis does not release her, however. She could very easily pull her fingers from the light curl of his, but he studies her, gently guides her to her seat and sits down next to her, finally releasing her hand.
"The ride back to the Lighthouse is a generous one." That's his way of letting her know she is more than welcome to get whatever it is off her chest, birds of a feather and all that. He understands.
She leans forward, elbows on her legs and buries her face in her hands and grumbles — loudly, bordering on a scream. "Brothers are so fucking annoying." She grumbles some more, makes a wide range of disgruntled sounds she can't even name to get all of Viago's words out of her head. When they start to taper off, when she can feel her throat scratch from the excessive use, she catches some of Lucanis's quiet, muffled laughter. "You've betrayed me."
"I'm not laughing at you, it's just… I felt all of that," he says. He clears his throat, pressing his knees to her. "Brothers are a lot."
She presses back. "Did Illario do something?"
"…No. Nothing," he says quietly. "I just feel like I keep… missing him. As though he's just out of reach."
He has been gone about a year, although she knows he doesn't need her to remind him of that. "He'll slow down eventually. No one can keep going forever. You'll catch him." And figure out whatever's going on with him, or start to.
"And you?" He turns the conversation towards her — they share. They always share. "What has Viago done to warrant all of that?"
She laughs awkwardly, turns her head upwards and searches the sky as she considers how to answer. She will certainly leave out the part where Viago accused her of sleeping with him, and perhaps all the warnings about how much of a danger he is. Although some might consider that a compliment. Whatever the nature of his and Viago's relationship is, however, she feels like she needs to keep that to herself, just in case. "We were arguing about you, actually."
"Me?"
"Yes. He wanted to make sure I was on my best behaviour with you, for whatever reason."
"I wonder why." His comment seems genuinely surprised. Guess he doesn't know either.
"I'm often left wondering why with him." She sighs. He nods in understanding — Talons. "And I have a natural talent for driving men absolutely mad, so you can imagine how that conversation went."
He hums. "Would you like me to speak to him?"
"No, it's—it was a non-issue he made into an issue. He was probably just concerned I was getting on your nerves or something. Being unprofessional." She bumps her shoulder into his. As sweet as it is for him to offer, it might make things worse. She can already hear her Talon, her brother: why would the Demon of Vyrantium come to her defense, of all people. "But thank you."
"You don't drive me mad, for what it's worth."
"These days? It's worth a lot, but that's also because I like you." She leans into his arm. "Keep that to yourself, though."
Especially now that Viago's on her case.
"To my pyre."
She realizes, then, how things might seem between them. If Viago caught her with him as they are now, knees and shoulders pressed together, quiet words exchanged at their proximity, he would claim he was right. Mild, innocent flirtations —if they can even be classified as such— are entirely harmless, and always in jest. They're close. They're friends. Friends can be playful and teasing. She's playful with everyone on the team. Many a de Riva are warmer in their approach as a way to ease tensions because their Talon is precisely the way that he is. Nearly every Crow has exchanged some manner of coy words with someone — a target, a colleague, a lover, or a friend. It's not at all strange.
But Lucanis is more intentional when he speaks. Measured. His words aren't frivolous and flattering. Everything he says, he means. Usually. When he jokes, his wit is sharp, but there is always a kernel of truth within, something to turn the humour, coupled with his delivery. Consideration in every phrase. Even if he jests, he won't tell. She likes that about him.
She nudges him with her elbow, small and almost nonexistent as their leathers keep them at a distance — no skin to skin contact, as they've grown accustomed to. He nudges her back, brothers are frustrating, that is their shared little something today, and he leaves his forearm out just long enough for her to press the length of hers to it. Even with Antivan blues covering both their arms, she knows precisely where all the scars beneath are, and adjusts her position accordingly to line up a few. He doesn't pull away, instead adds just a touch more pressure to the connection, a quiet little hum leaving him.
The rest of the ride back is quiet, but not unpleasant. They stay as they are, although she is tempted to lean on him some more. The only man she really leaned on because she wanted to flinched whenever she did so, and Lucanis is not Viago. He doesn't seem to mind much, especially when they share things, which they've been doing with increasing frequency.
The boat arrives, docking as the Caretaker disappears ahead of them. Lucanis gets up first, gets out of the boat and offers her a hand that she takes, this time without hesitation. She can feel his eyes on her as she does not release him immediately, and he stands with her for a few beats before they make their way to the Lighthouse. She can feel him watching her, see in the corner of her eye how he slows his step to match hers — as they cross the courtyard, as they climb the stairs to the Vi'Revas. And when she pauses, decides to stay a little longer in the Fade on the steps outside the Lighthouse, he takes a seat with her silently. How could she not adore him when he pays attention to her so?
"Just ten minutes."
"I won't tell if you'd like fifteen."
"Please, I'm a professional. I only need a minute to get into character. Two, at most," she boasts. He chuckles. Maybe she just wants a few extra minutes with him — with how they are.
Lucanis, unlike the man she loves most in the world —even if she wants to smack said man, spit in his food, and maybe change some of the labels on his poisons— is quiet and thoughtful. He does not judge her, he does not make her feel small or criticize her, and he does not cut her off mid-sentence. He simply lets her be, just as she is, just as she chooses. Of course he's her favourite. Of course she adores him. It's rare to find another Crow with whom one might mesh well. Different houses, different values, different personalities, experiences, and lives. However she found him, she counts her blessings. It's only natural she would develop a fondness for him and delight in their closeness. She hasn't been close to another assassin in a while. She forgot how good it feels to be known without being judged. Without having to watch what she says.
Lucanis is her friend, her fellow bird on the outs in some way. She can talk to him, really talk to him, and he can talk to her. About their lives, about the things they've been through, the things they've done, and they don't have to be polite about any of it. And after being thrown out of the country, unsure if she could ever return, after spending about a year with Varric and Lace —wonderful people, but good people— it's nice to be herself with someone. Viago's just paranoid. She doesn't need to be careful or watch herself with him. There is nothing wrong about this attachment she's made. Lucanis is simply what she needs right now — her most intimate friend. She's not giving him up.
She chances a glance at him, at his profile. She feels a bit guilty at the slight insinuation that she might throw herself at him, that he can be counted among the people who she folded for because they gave her the time of day. All her messes — all her mistakes and lessons. That he would be like any of the other people she failed to connect with, the people who only saw the worst in her, judged her, used her, liked the idea of her up to a point, or called her a monster when they finally understood what it meant to be with a Crow. He's not. None of them are like him. None of them can even compare.
At the tenth minute, she rises from her seat, turning to face Lucanis and offering him a hand. He takes it, and she leans back, using her weight to pull him up before they make their way to the Vi'Revas, stopping short of entering.
"What do you need to do with Emmrich?"
"Mryna wrote to him. It seems there are some unwelcome guests in the Necropolis — Venatori."
"Would you like me to come along?"
"Please? Stabbing's always more fun in pairs."
He chuckles. "Of course."
"That's why you're my favourite. Just don't tell Assan." She smiles at him, her own smile, soft and small and utterly fond, before she takes a breath and lets Rook's trademark characteristics creep in — brighter eyes, a light twitch at the corner of the lips, relaxed posture, a more boyish gait leaning more on the right foot, shoulders just slightly raised in a perpetual state of earnestness. Unpolished, light, pleasant, and sincere. Ironically.
Lucanis watches her quietly, and when their eyes meet, he straightens his shoulders in mock preparation. She snorts, moves to kick his boot, and he pulls away. She turns to the eluvian, and he joins her. She takes advantage of the moment and nudges him with her elbow as they step through the Vi'Revas. She hasn't had this much honest, open fun with someone in a while. Of course she adores him. It means it exactly that, nothing more. Viago's just being paranoid, like he always is. She doesn't need to watch herself with Lucanis. She doesn't need to take care of how close they are, how close they can be, because she enjoys learning more about him. Sharing things with him. She likes him. He's her favourite.
Tagged by @thefrostyshepard, thank you! 🩷✨ To take this quiz.
The rabid fangirl mutual
You are that one mutual who freaks out over the slightest update to your favorite fandom and furiously reblogs anything and everything about your thousands of fandoms. If anyone says something bad about your favorite character, you will hunt them down and rip their throat out. Your blog is very hectic and full of all kinds of fandom reblogs and rants. Your online friends love talking with you about your favorite characters and scenes in books and movies and games. You are an avid reader of fanfiction and will read anything you can get your hands on concerning your favorite fandom. Fanart makes you SO happy. You love writing fanfiction and making fanart as much as you love looking at them.
I feel like I'm in touch with reality enough to not care if someone dislikes the character lol, and I wish I was a prolific reader.
Tagging @zylphiacrowley @ambalambs @just-angsty-things @krisichiki @krys-loves-otome if you guys are down. No pressure though!
Trying to see if I can reasonably get a situation where Amri tells Lucanis she loves him before they've even kissed and they don't even kiss after that and he doesn't say it back 🤔
Rook de Riva & Lucanis Dellamorte; the birds talk about sex and relationships. 4.9k w.
[content warning: child prostitution, mentions of murder, assault, drugging. Casual, flippant, and unapologetic thoughts of murder]; Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
[another jump forward followup to this yarn 🫧 which isn't required reading but everything makes more sense]
🐦⬛🐦⬛--
"So wait, walk me through this again. He threw a wooden duck at you, and it hit you just as you were…?"
"The tail feathers were individually carved," Lucanis says. He holds up his left elbow, runs his middle finger up the skin in search of a scar until he finds it, a curved line, upside down from how his arm is positioned. "I was turned just slightly, and he threw it. One of the feathers broke and lodged itself into my skin. I did not notice until the contract was over."
"And it got through your shirt somehow. Wow." She grimaces as her mind paints the picture. "Did it hit your funny bone?"
He nods. She lets out a horrified sound. Somehow that hurts more. Well, at least hearing about it. Lucanis chuckles.
"And you?" he asks, leans back against the edge of the baths where they sit. "What strange object left its mark on you?"
She snorts, running through her memories and whatever object her former master had on hand to throw at her or beat her with that stayed. Expensive and ornate shoes, nail guards, hair sticks, mage staff, perfume bottles, candelabras, gardening tools and cleaning supplies, a doorknob. What hasn't left its mark on her would be the better question. But Lucanis's wooden duck comes from a contract, and if she thinks about any she's been on…
"…an Orlesian mask."
"An Orlesian mask? Interesting." He hums. "Those do not usually come off."
"No, they don't. It was—it's kind of a story."
"Rook, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
"No, no. We're friends."
"Are we, now."
"Well I don't invite just anyone with me to the bath," she says playfully, but it's true. Many a de Riva back home in Salle, in their house's communal baths, soak with one another to catch up, or in the case of fledglings: roughhousing. But to be in the bath with another, to leave blades outside, discard armour and clothing, to be vulnerable with another? A sign of closeness — of trust. And here in the Lighthouse? He's her favourite. A little piece of home —of Antiva— that talks to her, and one she gets to learn about — familiar but new. She leans in slightly to brush her shoulder with his as they sit side by side. She's glad he said yes when she asked him that first time, after their training session. De Rivas and Dellamortes are quite different, she's come to learn. Where she grew up with noise and footsteps down every hall, his home was quiet — solitary. But even so, Lucanis understands in a way their other colleagues and friends do not. "Or share scars with them."
He's quiet for a moment before speaking. "Nor do I."
"And I like talking to you—I can talk to you. And I don't have to… omit details," she says. She looks at him, his gaze a touch more serious as he nods once. He knows — it's one of those stories. She runs her thumb across her collarbone in search of the scar, turning her body slightly to face him. He nods when he sees it, and she retraces the mark before pulling her hand into her lap, clasping it. "…I got this one during one of my former master's contracts. We were told to lure several members of a gentlemen's club away. Me and some others, I mean. We were the distraction. The bait."
Something in his posture shifts at the last word.
"Were you still a fledgling?"
"Yes."
"...How old?"
"Thirteen." It's common for fledglings to act as spies as young as seven, although giving them a few years of training is typically the wiser course of action. She started at nine, a common age, but she was only the second youngest of her group. She wonders if Lucanis's grandmother ever pushed him or his cousin out to entertain their marks or her associates, to spy on or eliminate them, or simply just to please them. Was he ever anyone's favourite? Did he frequent someone's home the way she had? She tries to picture what he was like at thirteen — the same nose, eyes, and brows, but softer. No beard, and maybe shorter hair. Brighter, greener, with the light of youth, or maybe that was discarded early. "It was a lot of firsts — first contract in Orlais, even if it wasn't mine."
"Was it also your first…"
"My first sexual experience? Yes." Her response is a well-trained one she can't help: she smiles at him, soft and courteous, though there's something in her that's a little amused. Lucanis looks a little uncomfortable — the Demon of Vyrantium, unable to fully stomach something. She takes a breath, slow — lets her face relax, lets the smile fall past her shoulders, into the water below her, looks down at the person there. "It was also my first kill on a contract. I enjoyed that a little more."
"Only a little?"
"He was bigger than me. Twice my size. And we weren't allowed any weapons, disguised as performers, so it was hard," she says. She remembers, for whatever reason, even if subsequent jobs blurred together —similar objectives— how he left bruises in his wake. Her wrists, her jaw, her neck, her legs. The path his hands took. How he held her against his thigh and pressed her back against the wall. It wasn't just the scar. "While we were struggling he tried hit me with his head — used his mask as a weapon. His was inlaid with red sapphires, I think. So it left a mark."
"One that hasn't faded."
"No. Something to remember him by." She leans back, eyes travelling along the arches of the bath as she absently grabs for the washcloth next to her, scrubbing her collarbone. "…I hope your first time didn't have you walking away with any unwanted scars."
"No, I haven't had the… opportunity," he says quietly.
"To murder someone in the middle of sex your first time…?"
"…To be intimate." He clears his throat awkwardly. She looks at him, raises a brow, not quite following. "With… anyone."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to corner you like that." He looks so uncomfortable.
"No it's—you told me yours. I appreciate that you trusted me enough to share that with me," he says. He knows, just as she does, how terrifying everything was at that age. She looks at him, at the seriousness, the sincerity, as he considers his words. "Many of the stories we share are alike but…"
"…Not this one."
"No, not this one." He pauses, hesitant. "I cannot imagine it was an easy job so young. Any of it."
"It was a long time ago. And… telling you was kind of easy." She bumps her shoulder with his. "But only because it's you."
Something in his eyes softens at that.
"I am sorry, though, Lucanis. I didn't mean for you to feel like you had to share something."
"It's fine, really." He leans back against the ledge, turns his gaze to the ceiling. "You did not laugh or tease."
"Why in the world would I laugh? Or tease?"
He shakes his head, looks at her from the corner of his eye before turning his attention away again. "You wouldn't."
Despite their words, something feels off — awkward. It means something to him, and she knows very well how complicated Crows and intimacy can be, of image and assumptions, expectations and a lack of choice. She doesn't like seeing him uncomfortable, not here, not when they're alone together — honest and themselves. She follows suit, leans back and stares at the ceiling with him, and they sit in silence for a few minutes.
"For what it's worth, I envy you."
"…And for what it's worth, I don't envy you." His voice is quiet. She laughs, catches him watching her in the corner of his eye again before turning his gaze back. "…Telling you was also not too difficult."
"You're my friend — you can tell me anything you want. That's what friends are for."
"…So I'm learning."
She grins at that, feels the way he watches her briefly once more before looking away again. Another small handful of minutes pass between them.
"I do… sometimes wish that I could have chosen. Who and when, I mean," she says quietly, slowly, as though the words don't quite feel right. He turns his head then, eyes clear and attentive. She offers him a little smile. "If at all. To be how I am now, maybe? Thirty and not thirteen? Could've been different."
"In what way?"
"I might've… I don't know. Said no?" She feels herself frown. "Maybe I would've known more, and then went along with less? Or had some—some control."
When it was work, when her master commanded it, there was nothing else to say but yes. She had to nod, smile, and agree to whatever someone two or three times her age would want. When she was little, she remembers feeling uncomfortable, often in pain, until eventually her mind was somehow able to cut off, her body numb and unfeeling. Her mind would wander elsewhere, focus on her surroundings, the job, her fellow brothel-bought fledglings —her sisters— or nothing, even. And then when they were done, she would return rather abruptly. She would have to smile, lean on them, touch them, and play pretend. Sometimes she would kill them, if that was part of the job. Smother them in their sleep, drug them beforehand and wait for them to fall unconscious or lose most of their faculties before slitting their throats. Sometimes she would have to fight them for her life if she wasn't quick about it.
"Not with work," he comments. She nods, humming.
"Not with work, no. Not when I was little." When she was older and had more skills under her belt, she could adjust her approach, and thanks to all the time she spent with Viago, she knew how to make her own drugs. Psychoactives in particular changed her evenings — she got to spend more nights keeping a loose eye on a grown adult having whatever sort of experience she chose on their own while she rifled through their letters and documents, reducing the number of smiles and touches considerably. If she was lucky, she got to kill them at the end of the night for the trouble. "Lucanis?"
"Yes?"
"Did you ever try to… be something else for someone?" Her words comes hesitantly — the question is personal, and she hopes she isn't prying or cornering him again. "Not with work. Not with family expectations, but…"
"People?"
"Yeah." She nods. "You don't have to say much. Or answer, if you don't want to."
"With certain things, yes," he says quietly. "…Do you remember that one you told me — you said you'd opened up to two friends and a former partner about everything, and then you spent the entire evening after just… reassuring them that everything was fine?"
"Yes." She grimaces. "Was it that?"
He nods, lips pursed in a line. Omitting details or changing them entirely, painting a softer picture of what it takes to be their age in their line of work. She has no clear idea of what the Dellamorte method is like, but considering how formidable his house is and how much they have in common, she's certain it's torture. "After a few… uncomfortable attempts at sharing the full truth."
She leans closer, shoulder pressing against his. He does not pull back, but gently returns the gesture.
"Half truth, then?" Maybe even a quarter of the truth.
"Many, many details omitted after." He nods. "…with the small handful of people I… failed to truly open up to. Though that was probably why."
She debates with herself, then, on what to do or say. The admission feels painfully self-deprecating. Lonely. That something earlier that bothered him. A hint of shame, too, maybe. She decides then, to push closer, the length of her arm slowly closing the distance between them — elbow, forearm, until the sides of their hands, resting on each of their respective knees, meet. She adjusts the position of her hand, inching it forward lets the scar on the side line up with the large one spanning the back of his, continuing its course from her to him rather than around her palm. He hums.
"No one will hear it from me," she offers. "If it's any consolation."
"…It is." He's quiet for a few minutes, eyes on the line that travels between them now, before he speaks up again. "…My cousin dragged me to brothels on numerous occasions, even pushed me into rooms full of courtesans, all paid for, and I just… couldn't."
"Too transactional?"
"…Perhaps," he says. "There was no… connection. I never did understand being so struck by someone suddenly, so that wasn't something I felt, either."
"What did you do?"
"…I left."
"Did you at least tip?"
"Generously."
"Good man." She grins at him. "I wish I did that."
"Leave abruptly or tip generously?"
"Oh, I always tip generously. I wish I left when something didn't feel right. I never did learn my lesson when it came to personal relationships." He looks at her then, eyes just a fraction wider. She nods. It certainly would've saved her a great deal of trouble if she'd been able to just leave immediately. If she knew she could. "Not until much later, anyway. Far too late, I think."
At the very least, she learned —like him— rather quickly not to tell the whole truth about herself — about everything she's been through, the things she's done. Not with civilians, anyway. Outsiders. She thought, at a young age, that to be known was to be loved. That to be seen by someone in full was the most intimate way to connect with another, scars and all. That love —true love— was unconditional and accepting. She did not know affection had its limits. And an insufferable amount of moral superiority. She knows better now.
Every significant milestone in her life changed entirely when opening up to new friends or potential partners. She was now eighteen instead of thirteen during her first contract kill. A new, fictional, first sexual experience happened when she was sixteen with someone age-appropriate and was entirely consensual. Her first kill was at seventeen and not eight, and the person in question was a criminal and not a fellow fledgling — someone close to her. She was fully trained and ready before she did anything questionable by the morally superior's standards. She always wore an easy, carefree smile when telling her lies, all the way up to her eyes. Cleaner, palatable — more likeable and easier to stomach. In return, there were fewer horrified reactions, less indignation on her behalf or accusations of heartlessness. Not as much yelling about something she had no control over, which only made her feel guilty and responsible for whatever reason. No look.
She wonders if Lucanis also has a cleaner, modified version of himself ready and perfectly memorized to fill the half-truths out. Or maybe he simply says nothing. He's much less concerned about presenting a more likeable, less violent version of himself than she is, but she does have to do more of the talking. And people always have some issues with killers for hire.
She does quite envy him — wishes she could have had what he had. To have been able to spend more time with herself, to know herself, to leave at the slightest sign that things weren't to her preferences, to have preferences —boundaries— rather than cater to the wants of others instead. To understand the mortal experience outside the framework of a job — the satisfaction of the other as the primary purpose of the connection, orders on a missive. Maybe if she had, there would have been fewer disastrous relationships, fewer instances of devastation, and fewer bad decisions.
Maybe if she knew herself, she wouldn't have needed to craft a cleaner persona, and through that, draw only a certain type of people her way.
"…A lot of them found the idea of being involved with a Crow attractive — dangerous and exciting." The words are quiet, and because they're alone, they're also openly bitter. They can be, with him. She likes that. "Up to a point, of course."
He scoffs. "What point might that be."
"…A good handful of years ago," she starts, laughs momentarily at her own foolishness, "I'd met this utterly captivating young woman — a lady. Smart, witty, courageous. Kind."
"What happened?"
"A man she rebuffed sent some people to compel her to give him another chance, and I was with her," she explains. "I stopped them, and then I questioned them." Lucanis presses his pinkie into hers, brow arching just a fraction at what she knows he already knows. Still, she nods once to confirm. "The best part was that I thought that it was love. She stuck better than others. Stomached things better than them, too, or maybe I just hid just the right amount that nothing quite bothered her enough. Anyways, I was intent on telling her that night that she was everything to me."
"I take it you didn't."
"No, she beat me to it, in a manner of speaking." She laughs awkwardly, at her younger self, at how, if she were telling Viago or any of her sisters they all would've already rolled their eyes at her naivete. Or stupidity, depending on who she was with. That she immediately folds at the slightest bit of attention. Classic Amri — always so desperate for connection. Not Lucanis, though. "After I handled the situation the way our sort does, she called me a monster, and then told me she never wanted to see my face again. She was right, obviously, but still."
"Obviously." He smiles wryly. "I take it she was not the last?"
She sighs. "No, definitely not the last, but probably the one that hurt the most." She gives him a flat line of a smile. "I don't blame you in the slightest for just… moving that part to the back of the shelf."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"Well if you come up with a better one we can use that, but for now? Back of the shelf. The very back, in fact."
"Top shelf?"
"Even better."
Like the old empty bottle of ethanol on Viago's shelf, coated in a layer of dust. She wonders if he's cleaned it out and used it for anything, hidden next to an old mortar and pestle. Still good, just unused.
"Sorry, I shouldn't presume you've written that off like me," she corrects herself.
"…You think you're done?"
"Well, no one ever chooses a de Riva. And with my remarkable track record? Probably for the best." She shrugs. "If you met any of them they'd all tell you I'm insane, so I must be the problem."
And in a way, she knows she is. She won't deny it. How many times did she read someone's feelings as goals to meet? That to make them happy was a target objective, like they were no different from the people her master sent her off to entertain and spy on? Even when she knew better, she couldn't help it — it's just how she was built. How many times did she stay closed off? To save herself the trouble of yet another uncomfortable discussion about her life, her upbringing, her personality, her lack of morals because she knows how they'll react? It's always the same. To avoid another lecture about how much of a horrible person she is because she's a Crow and they're so pure and righteous and fucking morally superior, and if she truly loved them, she would abandon her house. Her life, all she's ever known. Her family. And she would reform. Because that's easy, because she never thought of what life might've been like had she not been bought, and because she doesn't know what an ultimatum is. Really now.
And then, because of course she would attach herself to all the worst people, there were the ones who only pursued her because they wanted her to deal with someone for them. Because if she loved them, she would do it. For free.
She didn't, of course. She wasn't that dumb.
"Would you take any of them back?"
"I don't know. Maybe," she admits. "I suppose I learned something from all those messes, regardless of how insignificant."
She knows better now. It only took years.
"They couldn't all have been messes."
"No, they were." She shakes her head. Apparently she quite likes messes, or she can't help but attract them. "I did everything I thought would please them and whatever they wanted within reason because that's how I've always understood people and feelings and intimacy, in a way. And you already know what it feels like to open up to someone who doesn't understand. I learned that I couldn't talk to them. Not truly — not like I do with you. So much of my life is being a Crow, and none of them couldn't stomach that. They might act like they can but… well, you know."
"There's always a point." He nods. She returns it.
"And if I omit everything I was built to be, what's left?"
"You didn't pursue any relationships with others Crows?"
"Oh, no. I did. Should've killed one of them." If she survives this contract? It's at least in the middle of her list of priorities when she goes home. If she gets to go home.
"Is that so?"
She lets out a single dry laugh. "I'm not drunk enough to tell you about either of those."
"So I only need to ply you with alcohol?"
"Maybe dessert?"
"I made that flan you were pestering me about."
"That's why you're my favourite."
"Very unprofessional of you to have favourites, Rook."
"Excuse you, I only have the one. And you won't tell." She pulls her elbow back before ramming it into his. Only slightly roughly. He returns it with just a fraction less force. "Have you tried? Connecting with another Crow, I mean."
"Aside from the one next to me? You will actually have to ply me with alcohol for that, and nothing less." Dodgy and particular. Although if his was anything like hers? Completely fair. "I think I might be too old now, anyway."
"Oh, you're never too old for anything." She takes her free hand and flicks some water at him. He makes a face, but she sees the way he considers retaliating — never too old. And in their line of work? Best to live their lives as well as they can while they still have them.
"Says the woman who's putting herself at the very back of this apparent shelf."
"Well you're not me, so you've already got that going for you."
"You aren't that much of a handful. But I am a Crow," he counters. "And you don't make any of it sound worthwhile."
"No, but I've gotten to know you," she says, "and I think that's worthwhile. I'm glad you let me."
He presses his knee to hers, the scars on their legs nearly lining up. "I don't think I'll ever know anyone like this again, never mind something…"
"…More?" She offers. "I won't be offended. It's what most say."
"Different." His correction is steadfast. "I'm a little offended now."
"Well, I'll be around. You'd never lose anything here."
"You speak as though I have admirers waiting."
"You do. Taash keeps score."
"And that things will not end the way they always have."
"Well, whatever you do, I'm entirely on your side. Birds of a feather and all that."
"And if I decide to join you at the back of that shelf?"
"I'd welcome it."
"Birds of a feather and all that?"
"You catch on quick." She grins at him.
He's silent for a few beats before speaking again. "You're surprisingly agreeable."
"I'm always agreeable. That's kind of the point of Rook. You know that."
"No, I mean… you haven't told me that I simply 'haven't met the right person yet,'" he says quietly.
"I'd rather drink my entire collection of poison, and then Viago's."
"A bit extreme."
"I don't think so." She draws a finger along the scars on her leg, pausing short of reaching him. "I know, now, what my boundaries are. How I want to be around people. You've spent time with yourself — you know best who you are and how you are with others. If you never want to be with someone in whatever capacity, you've held that choice, and I think that's wonderful. I would never insinuate that you simply don't understand yourself, which is what that is."
He looks at her, searches her face for something before his eyes return to hers, digging. For what, she isn't certain. A lie, maybe? That she doesn't quite stand by what she says, but she does. There's nothing quite as infuriating as being told who or what a person is, how they should be like. She would know. "And if I would?"
"If being with someone is something you want, I hope you'll find someone who feels right. And if they feel right, if they know you in the way you want and deserve, then I think they would make you feel understood and loved, and they would be so comfortable to you that you could tell them anything, and be anything with them without hesitation or fear. Not even for a moment." She bumps her shoulder with his. "And if they do make you feel uncomfortable, or if they try to make you do or be something that you don't want, you tell me their name and where they live and—"
"Don't," he cuts her off, but she sees the way his shoulders tremble slightly, the twitch in his lips. Finally. Just a little more. "You're not going to kill someone over my feelings."
"Excuse you, those are my friend's feelings, I will defend them however I see fit," she protests. And she means it, but she can tell he thinks she's joking. Crows look out for their own, though.
"I assure you, I can take care of myself."
"Oh, I know, but that's what friends do," she says. "And who said anything about killing? I'm a de Riva — we are a house of creatives."
The hair flip —wet, and just missing his face— is overkill, but that's the point. He scoffs, swiftly taking a swipe at the water they're in, splashing her. She returns it in earnest.
"How wrinkled are your toes?"
"How wrinkled are yours?" she counters. He rolls his eyes, and she relents, lifting her foot out of the water. Quite pruny — a sign for them to get out. He stands first, wraps a linen cloth around himself before picking hers up, and offering her a hand up and out of the bath before holding hers out for her to do the same. Turning her back to him, she takes it from him, folds the sheet over her chest to keep it in place. "For what it's worth: I think anyone would be lucky to know you, however you choose. I know I am." And she means it. She really hopes he knows that.
"I could say the same of you."
"Don't. You'd be wrong. A lot of people would argue with you on that." Her Talon would probably be at the top of that list for his own reasons. "You don't know me like the lot of them did."
"No, I don't. I'd like to think I know you a little better," he says quite easily. Factually, even. "After all, you don't invite just anyone with you to the bath, or share scars with them."
"…No, I don't." That somehow catches her off-guard. She knows she shares with him. She likes to. She can. It's part of how they bond, but something about how he parrots her words back to her — to hear her actions on his tongue. The words without the playful edge — earnest. "I think it's also that they had a hard time looking past all the blood on my hands. You don't have that problem, though."
"No, I don't. Nor do you." They walk out of the bath to the dressing room, Lucanis tossing her another cloth to dry her hair as he does the same. "…Are any of your former partners still alive?"
"I didn't kill any of them, if that's what you're asking." Although she probably should've killed at least two and ruined the lives of three.
"It's not."
"So, what, are you looking to talk to them or something?"
"Or something," he muses. She grins. His words are dark and just a bit dry. His eyes, however, are warm, and she tucks her fingers under the end of the cloth around his shoulders, flicking it into his face. He pulls the one on her head over her eyes.
"I think they'd flee the country if the Demon of Vyrantium came looking for them."
He sighs at the mention of his moniker. "That's what friends do, though, is it not?"
The way he turns her words on her warms her. It's a touch playful and sweet, but Lucanis is much more intentional with what he says.
Status update no one asked for: she is very cute, and very lovable, and very pretty, and very dangerous. She was like that like 2 years ago when she came into this world and it hasn't changed but I just felt like informing the public. No I don't have a cat named Amri, I am talking about The Character, thank you 🙇♀️
I never shared on this specific blog the funny little thought I had of like isekai'ing Amri into an otome game (one very specific one that rhymes with heekabin wenroku) and setting her loose upon the men in said game. It was very funny. Baby would have a bloody good time 🔪💜🐦⬛
since my art blog is kinda my personal blog: some of my favourite gif edits 💃 I only make gifs like twice a month on my game blog but all my respect to gifmakers who adjust the lighting in scenes, especially when a show/movie/game is just exceptionally poorly lit/super dark.
Should clarify that with the one with Amri, the left is after I edited, with Teia right side is edited side, and with Varric & Amri, the top half is the edited one. The colours in the original scenes were the most dramatic.
