Eating Crow (Complete) Lucanis x Antivan Crow Rook/original female character x Spite kind of???
"You know, my room has good choke points, too..."
Born to renowned assassins and raised in the heart of Treviso, Fiammetta De Riva, the Little Flame of Treviso, hasn’t known home in a very long time. What she does have, is a tarnished reputation amongst the Antivan Crows, a fractured relationship with her cousin Viago, and a complicated relationship with House Dellamorte.
OR, Rook fucked up at work and landed in trouble with her big cousin, is tasked to save the world by adopted father figure Varric Tethras, and accidentally catches feelings for old acquaintance-turned-abomination, Lucanis Dellamorte. Also, here’s jealous wreck Illario Dellamorte, who is pissed off about all of it.
chapter 52/52 (word count: 170k)
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What It Is To Burn Illario Dellamorte x Antivan Crow Rook
Constance de Riva’s self-control hangs by a thread, and Illario Dellamorte knows it.
Sister to Viago de Riva and one of the King of Antiva’s rare bastard children to choose the Crows over exile, Constance harbors a forbidden talent for blood magic that intrigues Illario as much as he vexes her. But when Constance provokes the Antaam into a full attack on the Crows, she finds Illario might be the only person who actually wants her alive.
That is, until she brings his presumed-dead cousin back to Treviso, and soon becomes the thorn in his side...
chapter 15/23 (Ongoing Word Count: 41k)
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The Sharpest Lives Illario Dellamorte x Neve Gallus
Months after Minrathous was torn apart by elven gods, Illario Dellamorte—long presumed dead after sacrificing himself to the Blight to save Neve Gallus—is captured by the Threads. Met with suspicion and questions about his intentions, he’s determined to prove himself an ally, and desperate to conceal his survival from the Antivan Crows. Most notably his cousin, First Talon Lucanis Dellamorte.
Still haunted by nightmares of the Blight and Elgar'nan's control, Neve struggles to turn a former crime syndicate into something that protects her city, and must reconcile her distrust and desire for a blood-magic obsessed assassin who claims to seek redemption. Meanwhile, Illario must resist the temptation of what pieces of stolen power he keeps secret...
chapter 1/? (Ongoing Word Count: 2.1k)
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Thank You for the Venom Viago de Riva x Teia Cantori
Viago de Riva finds himself yearning for House Cantori's most ambitious member, Andarateia, who also happens to be his cousin's childhood best friend…
Standalone detailing the yearning and subsequent romance between Teia and Viago pre Veilguard (prequel of sorts to Eating Crow.)
chapter 1/1 (Word Count: 4.5k)
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Baldur's Gate 3:
Forms of Imprisonment (Ongoing) post-tadpole, astarion x original female character
“I’ll be the devil, if that suits you, darling...” He murmurs into her neck. “Let me show you what it is to be godless.”
Astarion searches the Waterdeep library for leads on a rumored daylight ring, only to become captivated by its overnight archivist.
Celeste, a descendant of the goddess Selûne, has concealed her divine heritage for years. Now, hunted by Sharrans, she realizes her best hope of survival depends on a deeply traumatized vampire spawn rooming with her former flame, Gale Dekarios. In exchange for protection, Celeste agrees to help free Astarion from an eternity of darkness.
OR, where two people who have kept others at arm’s length for their own survival explore the line between “very good friends” and hopeless devotion.
For those who enjoy: reluctant allies to friends to lovers to enemies to lovers again, banter, sexual tension, messy slowish burns that become wildfires, exploration of religious trauma and expectation, and maybe a little sacrilegious fantasy.
chapter 52/53 (Current word count: 135k)
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Somebody in the Hells Loves You (Ongoing) gale x named tav he’s met before
It’s been nearly a year since anyone has heard from Gale Dekarios. Once a promising mage, he now lives as a recluse, stripped of Mystra’s favor and cursed by netherese magic due to a well-intentioned but catastrophic mistake.
For Florence Ashveil, who left Blackstaff Academy years ago after circumstances thwarted her dreams of becoming one of the best and brightest wizards of her generation, the silence has been even longer. But when their paths cross again just as they are abducted by a Nautiloid ship, it seems they’ll have plenty of time to get reacquainted.
For those who enjoy: Slow burns, secrets, lovers with baggage, Raphael, the hells/lore, old crushes to friends to lovers, sexual tension, romantic academia, mutual pining, parents that really fucked things up for you.
chapter 10/? (Current word count: 34k)
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Dragon Age Fucked Up Ships Week, Day 5: Corruption/Codependency (And a loose interpretation of the hatefucking alt prompt)
Rook’s suspicions about Illario lead her to an alleyway in Treviso, and later, between his sheets.
Thank you @dafuckedupshipsweek for hosting!
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Eulogy
Pairing: Illario Dellamorte x Fem Rook (Antivan Crow/Blood Mage)
Warnings: (18+) Violence (mild-ish/roughing up unintentionally), heavy smut, rough sex, hate-fuck adjacent..) Please check AO3 for detailed chapter warnings and tags.
Word Count: 3.2k
notes: This installment (Chapter 15) is part of a longer fic, but suitable to read on its own. If interested, you can Start from the beginning (but only if you want to.)
Read below the cut, or on AO3 (if you feel like making my day with a kudos/comment)
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Ashes. Illario had forgotten ashes at a meeting to plan his own grandmother’s funeral.
Constance suspected there was more to the story. And she was intent on finding the truth.
Looking both ways down the alley, she swore under her breath. He had disappeared from the rooftops, using a nearby trellis to vanish onto the streets below. Antaam chanted in the distance, and she oriented herself toward their voices, trying to make out the words…
…And quickly found herself slammed against the wall, a hand around her throat, pinning her in place.
“Who sent you?”
Constance gasped for air, clawing at the fingers curled around her neck. In her panic, she could barely make out Illario’s dark eyes. As he reached for the blade at his belt, she snagged the fabric of her cloak’s hood, pulling it down.
More shaken than she’d seen him since her return to Treviso, he released her, stumbling back.
“Expecting someone else?” She adjusted her hood around her shoulders. “You’re being followed, aren’t you?”
“People close to me are dying, Rook.” Illario’s permanent sneer returned, and he rolled his shoulders with cool indifference. “Best to keep your distance.”
“Would you mourn me?” Constance asked mockingly, reaching for his cheek. “Would I make a pretty corpse for you?”
For a moment, Illario almost looked like he’d lean into the touch, take it as a small comfort. Instead, he scowled, swiping her hand away.
“I would not mourn you. Do not mistake our history for something more than it was. Perhaps the sex went to your head.”
Illario’s nostrils flared, a warning in his eyes as Constance’s own mask faltered. His eyes flicked behind her, toward the alleys, before he grabbed her by the arms and slammed her against the opposite side of the alley, less violently than when he had not recognized her.
“There’s nothing for you here, Rook.” Voice more pleading than cruel, he was now postured to appear more menacing as he loomed over her, lowering his lips to her ear.
“Eastern Canals, past the art galleries,” his breath was warm against her neck as one hand slid up her wrist. “Tallest building, top floor.”
Something cool pressed against her palm, and he closed her fist around a small key.
“Don’t come looking for me anymore.” He growled in her ear, “Meet me where I tell you, and only—“
“Get off me!” she snapped as he shoved away from the wall. He regarded her for a long moment before straightening the collar of his jacket as he cleared his throat.
“I don’t have any more late nights to spare for you, Rook,” he spat her nickname again, avoiding the use of her House name as he usually did when they bickered. Was it a Crow following him? Or Venatori? Both?
Constance watched him disappear around the corner, then checked the alleys before venturing over the canals. She blinked away the shadows at the edges of her vision, still disoriented by the encounter as she clenched the key in her palm.
So Illario Dellamorte had a safe house.
She slid the key into her pocket and returned to the casino. There, she found Lucanis and Teia mid-conversation on one of the couches. Teia frowned, rising to wrap an arm around Constance’s shoulders.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, guiding her to the bar and retrieving a bottle of wine. “Have a drink, dear.”
The Fifth Talon poured and pushed a silver goblet into her hands and motioned toward the couch. Constance sat down, staring vacantly at a spot on the floor.
“Did he say something to you, Rook?” Lucanis asked, forehead creased with concern.
She took a long drink before replying, the tannins and subtle earthiness on her tongue dulling her other senses as she sank into the shadows of herself. Dark corners of her mind awaited her, places she’d often disappeared to when she seduced cruel men in ballrooms for money, when she killed people who seemed repentant because a piece of parchment instructed her to, or when Varric told her it was her turn to be a leader in his stead.
A place where she felt nothing, where her voice did not tremble, where Illario Dellamorte was not welcome.
“I couldn’t find him.” She said and finished her wine.
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The apartment’s exterior was unassuming and overwhelmingly… underwhelming. A far cry from what Constance had expected from Illario.
In that case, the perfect safe house, she supposed.
She knocked softly before slotting the key into the lock, then carefully cracked the door just enough to slip inside. It was dark as she lowered her hood, and her hand drifted over a candle on a nearby shelf, igniting it and illuminating a small foyer. She braced one hand on the wall, peeking around corners as she felt her way through the house.
It was small, but not a single luxury was spared. The floors had been updated, everything neatly painted, materials likely sourced from the most expensive districts of Orlais. There was a kitchen, a study, a den, and only one bedroom, with an adjoining bath.
Constance removed her boots and slowly disarmed herself, laying out seven daggers in a row on the bedroom vanity. Their blades, all of varying length and thickness, gleamed as she hesitated at her waistband, opting to keep one stowed at her thigh. She shrugged off her cloak next, laying it over a chair. Curious, she wandered the room, nudging a few trinkets on Illario’s nightstand. Bottles of scented oils were meticulously arranged around a small dish full of brooches and expensive rings, and a hair comb that appeared to be carved from a wyvern tooth rested on the very edge… Lucanis had liked wyverns, hadn’t he? Perhaps they were of familial interest.
She moved to the dresser, opening the top drawers and sweeping her hand across neatly folded pairs of underclothes and cravats, looking for a false bottom or hiding places. Crouching before it, she found only trousers and sweaters in the next two drawers down. She almost gave up but pulled on the bottom latch out of curiosity and was met with resistance. Glancing over her shoulder at the bathroom, she pulled a pin from her hair and probed underneath until she located a small latch under the dresser, and slipped the pin inside. It rattled inside the iron gap, but the mechanism proved quite easy to break. Either the secrets or valuables kept within were not worth much, or Illario put too much faith in locks.
Constance reached inside, fingertips snagging on the sharp corners and torn pages of parchment. She pulled a stack free and sorted through them. A few missives from Caterina, old letters from Lucanis. Why lock away correspondence? Grief?
She reached for another stack, tied together by a thin piece of twine, and pulled the top envelope free. It had been opened once before, contents shoved carelessly back inside so that a rip began from the bottom and tore up the middle of the page.
Constance’s heartbeat stuttered at the familiar handwriting. These were her letters.
Every letter she’d sent him was bundled beneath. She looped off the twine, sorting through each one, finding only the first had ever been opened. The rest remained sealed. He’d stopped reading, yet he’d kept every piece of correspondence she’d sent him. Why? The care he’d taken to preserve them proved too much effort to have simply been forgotten…
Constance hastily shoved the letters back into the drawer and pushed it shut until the lock clicked back into place. The next time Illario opened it, he’d undoubtedly know she’d snooped, but that would be a problem for another day.
To distract herself from the unsetting gnawing in her stomach, she rose from her crouch and shifted her attention to one of the wardrobes. With both hands, Constance rummaged through a few pairs of leathers, several formal outfits, and a breathtaking gown. Certainly too small to fit him, had he found an occasion to wear it…
She pulled at the hem, bringing enough of it outside the wardrobe that she could admire the fabric in the light. Sheer black lace covered the bodice, a delicate mess of tulle and raven feathers stitched down its sides. Subtle beadwork contoured the edges of its straps, which looked to settle neatly at the edge of its softly plunging neckline. Some of the fabric was wrinkled where it had been smashed into the back of the wardrobe, and she made a soft sound of disapproval.
“I see you’ve made yourself at home.”
Constance startled, quickly stuffing the gown back into the wardrobe. Illario approached from behind, his palm coming up to cup one of her elbows and slow her movements.
“Well, now that you’ve discovered it, you might as well give it a chance to breathe.”
He wedged himself between her and the doors, pulling the dress back out and holding it in front of him.
“You’re getting sloppy, de Riva,” he crossed the room, laying the dress out flat on the bed, “So much time away from Antiva has made you far too easy to sneak up on.”
“I don’t need an exhibition of your lovers’ abandoned formal wear.”
“Are you worked up about me seeing other people in your absence?” Illario chuckled. “The dress was my mother’s. Perhaps it will please you to know that I’ve never brought anyone here.”
“No one?”
“It’s good to have at least one place no one can find you.”
“But now I know about it.”
“You’ve had a vial of my blood in your possession for the better part of a year. No safe house will protect me from that…” He cocked his head to the side, “I suppose your word is worth something after all, isn’t it?”
Constance avoided answering, moving closer to the bed to admire the dress again.
“It’s stunning. Did your mother have it made?”
“I believe my father had it made for her. I don’t have much left of them, Caterina had most things purged. Luckily, this caught my eye even as a child, and I smuggled it away with a few other things.”
“It needs pressed, put on a kettle and I’ll steam it–”
“I do not need you to handle my housekeeping, Constance,” Illario’s voice was rough as took her by the shoulders, tilting his head as he forced her to meet his gaze, “Tell me, why are you here?”
“You invited me.”
“After you chased me through the alleys with all the subtlety of a cat in heat.”
“Do I disgust you so much?”
“If only.” He muttered, and Constance narrowed her eyes. Illario threw his head back and sighed.
“It’s not safe for us to be… seen together.” He released her and picked up the gown from the bed, returning it to the wardrobe. As he closed the doors, his head fell against the wood with a soft thud. “If they’ll come for Caterina, they’ll come for me. Anyone close to me. Not just the Venatori, but the other Houses, too, and…”
“So you treat me like a stranger, to protect me? It seems you’re just eager to punish me for being exiled.”
Illario pivoted, now leaning against the dresser with a smug grin.
“I didn’t realize your feelings were so delicate.”
“And I should have honored my initial judgment that you are a lecherous, narcissistic, self-pitying—”
A low growl caught in his throat, and lunged for Constance, yanking her body flush against his. She stifled a gasp, clinging to the lapels of his jacket as his thumbs dug into the insides of her arms.
“What is it you need from me tonight, Constance?” His lips were now dangerously close to her own. “You have Viago. You have Teia. You have Varric and my cousin and all those friends—”
“I can’t, they can’t see me shaken, or scared—”
“But I can? What makes me any better?” Illario released her and stepped backwards, arching a brow. “What happened to you in Minrathous? I’ve never seen you so distraught.”
“You haven’t seen what they can do, Illario. The gods–Solas, Elgar’nan, Ghilan’nain. They threaten everything. And the Venatori… I’ve never seen Blood Magic so corrupting, so dangerous—”
“Then cut your losses. Run across the continent, hide.”
“So the Crows can hunt me down for desertion?”
“I would never send anyone to lay a finger on you. And with Caterina dead, I’m certain even Lucanis would turn a blind eye. That’s why you saved him, isn’t it? To get into my grandmother’s good graces? To earn your pardon, get your assassin?”
“Is that what you think? I didn’t do it for Caterina, I didn’t even do it because Neve asked me to. I did it for you.”
Illario blinked.
“What?”
“He’s your family. Your closest friend. If anything had happened to Viago, I couldn’t imagine what I–”
“No, no,” he shook his head and began to pace the room. “You don’t do things for me, Constance! Do you understand? That’s not what we are. That’s not what this is!”
“And what are we, Illario? Certainly not lovers, not the kind that care. Certainly not friends, not the kind that read the letters sent to them while the other–”
“I don’t want to hear a word about your fucking letters!”
Constance’s mouth hung open slightly as Illario stood, frozen across the room, chest heaving with each furious breath.
“I read the first one, how lonely you were, and I took a ship to Minrathous,” he pointed north, composing himself with a shudder, “only to find I’d just been a convenient placeholder. What was it like, you and Varric, drinking, laughing, playing chess… is that where you got your new little nickname?”
“I…” Constance stumbled back a step, “but if you read what I wrote, you’d know–”
“What? That you were miserable, too? Hardly a comfort, Rook.”
“You were alone…” she whispered, “And then Lucanis—”
A shadow fell over his features, and he turned away. Constance followed, reaching for his shoulder.
“I’m sorry that you lost so much. That I wasn’t there. I wish you’d written, wish you’d told me–”
“Enough.”
Illario whirled, grabbing her with such force that she flinched. A sinister smile graced his lips as he looked down at her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear too roughly to be mistaken for anything affectionate.
“You came looking for me so soon, Constance. Did you find your friends weren’t enough to satisfy you?”
Her cheeks heated, only encouraging him further.
“I thought surely you’d invited your detective to bed, she seemed your type…” He took the top clasp of her leathers and began to unfasten it, eyes flicking to meet hers, waiting for her to protest. When she did not, he continued to the next one.
“But no, the way you lean into every touch, even when it’s rough. You must be starving for it, to go so long without feeling, being felt…”
Constance shuddered as he reached the bottom of her torso and slid her jacket off her shoulders. She wore nothing underneath, Antiva was too hot for layers.
“And how are you liking my cousin’s company? The two of you must have so much in common…” He trailed a finger down the center of her bare sternum and hesitated, “Heroic, bleeding hearts…”
He stared for a moment, then withdrew, dipping his chin to loosen his cravat. Constance stumbled backwards until her legs hit the mattress. She sat, palms braced behind her, holding her breath as Illario removed his shirt. Suddenly, the stack of letters in his dresser didn’t matter. There were no other answers worth seeking tonight, only…
“I haven’t forgotten what you need,” Illario sauntered closer, trousers hanging precariously from his hips as he crouched before her and tugged at her bottoms. She eased herself back onto the sheets and let him pull them off in one clean motion. He tossed them aside and rose to his feet, before unfastening and discarding his own.
“I haven’t forgotten how you need it…”
Naked, he crawled over her, one arm slipping underneath the small of her back to hoist her further up the bed against the pillows. Soon, his mouth claimed hers, teeth grazing her bottom lip, devouring her in a snarl as he reached between her legs. His fingers drew a line from cunt to clit, dragging up the wetness gathered here before plunging deep, rough. Constance arched into his touch as he watched her writhe.
“Do your new friends know what a wicked thing you are?” Another plunge of his fingers, curling deep inside of her, “Does my cousin?”
Constance clawed at his back, nails scraping his flesh until she was certain she’d drawn blood. Illario’s jaw clenched, and he bent down again, kissing her again to muffle his own moans. He withdrew his fingers from inside her, clumsily fumbling with his cock, the precum at its head warm and wet against her clit.
“I want you to think of me every time he looks at you,” he hissed in her ear, “While he says that fucking nickname of yours, I know who you really are, Constance de Riva.”
Illario finally pushed inside her, giving little time to adjust as he began to thrust.
“I met you first,” he panted between thrusts, “You were mine first. You were mine—”
Illario’s detachment from before had fallen away. His facade of indifference had come completely undone, and fucked her as if he resented her for making him feel anything at all. But a man who truly resented her would not have read her letters and lied about it. Would not have given her the key to his safe house, would not be so full of envy at the thought of her with someone else. Constance tried not to think about the implications as Illario’s rhythm became more erratic, breath catching in his throat.
“Fuck,” Illario whimpered, and the sound, the feeling of him desperately trying to delay his own orgasm, sent her over the edge. Humiliation tinged her cheeks pink as he smirked at the confirmation that she hadn’t had a release in months. His smile disappeared, and he came soon after, abs contracting and throat bobbing as he tried to look anywhere but her face. But eventually their eyes locked, and his cock twitched in her one last time before he buried his nose in her neck with a shudder, collapsing onto his elbows. He lay there, panting as the sweat mingled on their bellies, before rolling to his side.
They said nothing, breathing together on their backs until Illario finally reached for her, crushing her body into his. The sheets tangled at their waists as limbs knotted around each other, and Illario took her chin between two fingers, studying her in the dark. He gave her one slow kiss that made her stomach twist, then released her, dropping his head onto the pillow. Constance rested her cheek between his neck and shoulder, wrapping her arms around his middle as he stroked her hair, staring at the ceiling. She counted each rise and fall of his chest until exhaustion finally overtook her.
When she woke, her clothes were folded neatly on the dresser.
Dragon Age Fucked Up Ships Week, Day 4, Alternate Prompt: Possessiveness
After a meeting at Cafe Pietra with Rook and Lucanis, it becomes evident to Illario they will be larger thorns in his side than expected. A visit from Zara Renata only confirms his worst fears.
Thank you @dafuckedupshipsweek for hosting!
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Envy
Pairing: Illario Dellamorte x Fem Rook (Antivan Crow/Blood Mage)
Warnings: (18+) Violence, control, blood magic. Please check AO3 for detailed chapter warnings and tags.
Word Count: 2.1k
notes: This installment is part of a longer fic, but suitable to read on its own. If interested, you can Start from the beginning (but only if you want to.)
Read below the cut, or on AO3 (if you feel like making my day with a kudos/comment)
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One week after Constance reappeared in Treviso and exhumed Lucanis from his false grave at sea, Illario waited for them canal-side at Cafe Pietra. Two people Illario once considered himself closest to, now unceremoniously thrust back into his life. There was relief in it, of course, he had mourned his cousin’s death. Regretted every action he’d taken that put Lucanis on that ship to Treviso. But as always with Zara, Illario had few options, and once she’d given him word his cousin was dead and gone, he could only move forward with his grief, his guilt, and try to make something of it.
Zara Renata was not a woman of her word, nor was she a woman with any redeemable qualities. Still, Illario had not suspected her of lying to him. He’d thought he’d had her until his finger, enamored by his smooth talking, proximity to power, and of course, his cock.
His faux-amor had been notably absent on the night of Lucanis’ return. The Venatori attack on the casino had been Illario’s idea, a distraction disguised as an attempt on Caterina’s life, sanctioned by Zara Renata. In reality, Illario needed to keep Caterina and Lucanis from talking. He had Zara’s guards whisk his unconscious grandmother away to the villa in the chaos. Upon waking, he’d convinced her that fabricating her demise was the only way to prevent another attack from Zara. Strange enough, the old crone had been content to play dead, sequestered to her chambers. She’d almost seemed… proud of him.
But while Caterina was content to take her clandestine holiday—she’d even taken up knitting, likely for its benefit to blade work—Lucanis’ instinct to throw himself into work had become a problem. Evidently, the elven gods had not kept him and Constance busy enough, as his cousin had sent at least four missives urging Illario for more information. With no other choice, Illario fabricated intel about the Venatori, urging Lucanis to meet him at their favorite coffee shop. It wasn’t as if he could tell Lucanis where Zara was. Even if he wanted to, she’d been conveniently impossible to reach since Constance broke Lucanis out of the Ossuary. Zara was smart to stay away, but it left Illario on his own to improvise. Hopefully, it would be enough to sate his cousin’s appetite for revenge until Illario formulated a better plan. Their grandmother would not stand to be locked in her bedroom for long.
“You’ve never been to Cafe Pietra?” Lucanis’ voice echoed faintly from a nearby alleyway. “How?”
Illario cocked his head to listen more closely for Constance’s response.
“My time in Treviso was short and… limited in scope.”
He grinned. Choice words.
“I see,” Lucanis replied. “Well, you will not be disappointed…”
Illario straightened in his chair as the pair rounded the corner. There was still an air of discomfort between them, though not from Lucanis’ usual distrust. Rather, the awkwardness of intentionally created distance, averted eyes, busied hands, hurried speech…
Andraste’s cunt. His cousin had a crush. And by the pink of Constance’s cheeks and uneasy smile, she was well aware.
What a disaster.
“Finally,” he said as they took their seats—Lucanis beside him, Constance across. “I thought you’d leave me here all by my lonesome.”
He flashed a smile at Constance, who did not return the gesture.
“Please,” Lucanis nudged Illario in the ribs with his elbow, “You think I’d ever pass up Cafe Pietra’s coffee?”
No, which was precisely why Illario had chosen it.
He offered Constance a charming wink, one he might have used to lure in a mark. She’d be immune, of course, but it was Lucanis he was putting on the show for.
“You see, Rook?” He emphasized her nickname, just enough that she’d know he disapproved, “My cousin is all stomach and no heart.”
“Don’t mind him,” Lucanis interjected quickly, “Illario cannot appreciate anything but himself.”
Lucanis flashed a quick glare in Illario’s direction before continuing.
“They serve a specialty roast here, Andoral’s Breath. Bitter and sweet, like a kiss goodbye. You should try it.”
Maker. He was hopeless.
“Are you certain she wouldn’t prefer a glass of wine?” Illario interjected.
“Why not both?” Constance forced a smile at both of them, and Lucanis nodded.
“Of course, I’ll be right back then.”
Excusing himself from the table, he ventured to the counter. Once safely out of earshot, Illario brushed the tip of his boot against Constance’s inner calf, leaning forward across the table.
“The two of you seem cozy.”
“Not. A. Word,” Constance growled through clenched teeth, delivering a sharp kick to his shin. With a chuckle, Illario retracted his foot back under his chair. “But you and I will be having many words later.”
Illario winked. “I look forward to it.”
“No,” Constance’s cheeks heated, “I didn’t mean–”
“Is my cousin bothering you?” Lucanis asked, setting down two mugs of coffee with one hand and passing Constance the glass of wine he’d had carefully balanced in the other. “Illario has always been a shameless flirt.”
“Guilty as charged.” Illario held up both hands and forced a smile. “Though, if I’d known you were setting Rook and me up on a date, I would have brought company for you, cousin.”
“Enough, Illario.”
“What was the name of that bookseller in the market who used to flirt with you… the one with all the dirty novels?”
“Do you think we’ve done enough ‘Three Crows bickering in a coffee shop’ to bore the spies?” Constance interrupted, the warning in her tone directed pointedly at Illario.
“Just about,” he replied with a grin, settling back in his chair, “The most persistent one gave up when Lucanis started getting all romantic about roasts.”
A small truth, likely the only one Illario would tell this evening.
“It’s a very good roast,” Lucanis sipped his coffee with a shrug. “So, you have something?”
“The Crows I sent after Zara have picked up her trail. They say she’s gone to Vyrantium.”
“If she was in Treviso to kill Caterina, she can’t be in Vyrantium already…” Constance’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Rook’s right,” Lucanis agreed, “Zara’s given you a false lead, cousin.”
“You have better information?” Illario asked, fishing.
“We’re compromised. There’s no other way Zara could even touch Caterina. You need your eyes here. In Anvita.”
But Zara hadn’t touched Caterina. Illario scowled. He’d been too busy trying to throw them off Zara’s trail to think of how Zara might have orchestrated the casino attack. Lucanis was close to the truth, but a fool to think the witch would have spared Viago and Teia. Illario had done that for Constance’s sake. And, perhaps, because he liked Viago and Teia, most days.
“Zara would never be foolish enough to stay. Not with you out for blood.” Illario insisted. He needed Lucanis and Constance looking elsewhere. Not only to keep their suspicions off him, but to keep Zara from getting to them before Illario had the chance to deal with her.
“Of course she would. If the Crows protecting her are here.”
Illario suppressed a shudder at the thought. Perhaps Zara was watching them right now.
“Rook, reason with him, would you?” Illario pleaded, eyes widening as he tried to sway her to his side with what little rapport might remain between them, “He’s being paranoid.”
“I am not paranoid!” Lucanis’ raised voice turned a few heads in the cafe, and he leaned over the table, carefully levelling it. “She came after me. She came after Caterina. She could come for you, too.”
The worry creasing Lucanis’s brow only infuriated Illario more. He braced both hands on the table and pushed to his feet.
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll clean house, all right? Leave this to me.”
He shoved off the table and stalked toward the exit. For two blocks he seethed silently, checking over his shoulder in case he’d been followed. When crossing the bridge at Heart and Central, he could still make them out by the canal, likely discussing his outburst. A tantrum, Lucanis would call it. Constance would laugh, pretending she did not know any better, pretending she did not know him.
And maybe she didn’t. At least not anymore.
Illario changed direction down the alley closest to the villa, down to the secret passage underneath. When they were children, Lucanis discovered it and never told him. The only secret Illario believed had ever existed between the two of them. Perhaps his cousin believed he needed a hidden escape route. Whatever his reasons, Illario had followed him one evening, but never said a word. A secret revealed and left unspoken was far more valuable than any accusation he could make.
“Amatus…”
Zara Renata was waiting in the cellar by the basement door, lounging against the wall. She wore one of her skin-tight gowns, too proud and overconfident to dress down for anonymity. Zara was the type of person who needed to be noticed, no matter the cost.
“You should be far away from here.” Illario warned, stepping past her and opening the basement door, “That thing you put inside my cousin can probably smell you.”
“Oh, so you’ve learned about Spite,” Zara asked as she followed. “Who told you?”
“You lied to me, Zara.”
“I did. Does that upset you?”
Illario clenched both fists and whirled on her at the base of the stairs to the foyer, not wanting to risk Caterina overhearing.
“You let me believe my cousin was at the bottom of the Nocen Sea while you fed him a demon!”
Unfazed by the outburst, Zara smiled, tilting her head slightly.
“Tell me, Amatus… who is Rook?”
Illario’s heart stuttered in his chest. Her tone was too sweet for the question to be anything other than a trap.
“She’s no one. An acquaintance of my cousin’s.”
Razor-sharp nails sliced across his cheek as she slapped him. Illario felt the tug of the earth beneath him and crumpled to his hands and knees, straining against her power as red mist surrounded him.
“Do not lie to me!” Zara shrieked, loud enough to send the rats sniffing at a barrel of aged wine running in all directions.
“She’s an old bedmate, nothing more.” Illario panted, “Leave her out of this, Zara. You’ll only make a bigger mess.”
“Bigger than the one you’ve made by keeping your grandmother alive in her chambers upstairs?”
“We agreed, the Crows are mine to deal with!”
Zara’s fingers danced in the air, and Illario’s muscles strained, the air squeezing from his lungs. He scrambled backward, then collapsed onto the stairs.
“You forget yourself, Amatus…” Zara crouched over him, tugging his hair free from where it was tied back and raking a hand through it. “Elgar’nan gives us such generous gifts, but you are a guest within the Venatori. I would hate to end your life here. Who would be left then to stand between me and Rook?”
“Leave her… out of this…” Illario choked out as blood trickled from his nose over his lips.
“Your integrity is so weak you’d betray your own family, but not her… curious.” She twirled a lock of his hair around one finger and gave it a hard tug. “What would she do if she knew what you were?”
Zara rose to her feet, pacing before him.
“You’ll be better off when you remember that I’m all you have, Amatus. You’ve lied to everyone around you, but I know the truth. And I do not reject you for it, I embrace it.”
Illario’s motor control slowly returned to him, and he strained for the stair railing, dragging himself to his feet.
“And what do you see in that hedge mage whore?” Zara clicked her tongue, shaking her head, “Even Elgar’nan has been looking for her? Perhaps she could be an asset to the Venatori…”
“Zara!” Illario snarled. “You have no use for an exiled Crow who couldn’t create a hemorrhage if she tried. Leave her, put Lucanis out of his misery, and be done with this. Both of them are useless to you.”
“On the contrary. I invested a great deal of resources in the Demon of Vyrantium. I’d like to have my pet back.”
“I want out, Zara,” Illario seethed, tasting blood with every word. “I’ve had enough!”
She examined her nails on both hands, ignoring him.
“Remind me, Amatus, what was it you told your cousin you’d be doing at the cafe? Oh, yes…”
Her eyes met his, and with a flick of two fingers, he was on his back again, stars flitting across his field of vision as his head collided with the stairs.
“Clean house,” Zara said, stepping over him, “or I’ll be doing it for you.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Dragon Age Fucked Up Ships Week, Day 3: Major Character Death
Constance de Riva, Illario Dellamorte's short-lived romance, returns from exile, and brings with her his presumed dead cousin, Lucanis. To anyone else, this would be a joyous occasion. For Illario, it is a nightmare.
Thank you @dafuckedupshipsweek for hosting!
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
13: Revenant
Pairing: Illario Dellamorte x Fem Rook (Antivan Crow/Blood Mage)
Warnings: (18+). Please check AO3 for detailed chapter warnings and tags.
Word Count: 2.1k
notes: This installment is part of a longer fic, but suitable to read on its own. If interested, you can Start from the beginning (but only if you want to.)
Read below the cut or on AO3 (if you feel like making my day with a kudos/comment)
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
The Diamond was uncharacteristically quiet as Illario stood beside Caterina’s chair, rubbing a stubborn wrinkle in the leather cuff of his jacket between his thumb and forefinger. Someone had requested the Crows’ assistance with a Venatori problem—one he likely had a hand in creating—and Illario fully intended to be present.
“This meeting could have been a contract,” he mumbled, peering around the corner through the curtained archway. “Why did Teia need to clear out the entire casino?”
“Stop fidgeting.” Caterina jabbed the end of her cane at his shins with a scowl, and he sidestepped, narrowly avoiding its sting.
“You said this Rook is a Crow?” Illario dropped both hands to his sides, smoothing his palms against his trousers. “From what house?”
One corner of Caterina’s lip twitched as she leered at him from the corner of her eye. “De Riva.”
“Not any de Riva I’ve ever heard of,” he muttered, peeking around the corner again.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” Viago’s voice echoed from within the stairwell, “Crows always finish the job!”
Illario cocked his head to the side, furrowing his brow as he listened for a response. Not unusual for the Fifth Talon to be in a foul mood, but he wasn’t one for making a scene…
“We just can’t take initiative, right? My run-in with the Antaam taught me that.”
Years of training fell away at the sound of the second voice, and Illario locked his knees to keep himself upright.
“Don’t let him scold you too much,” Teia’s interjection was louder as they drew nearer, “Vi was worried about you…”
“Rook, you said?” There was a quiver in Illario’s voice as he spoke, one he resented deeply.
“Yes…” His grandmother answered slowly, fingertips tapping in quick succession upon the arm of her chair, “but I believe you knew her as…”
“Constance,” Illario breathed as she emerged through the lounge curtains behind Viago and Teia. Her eyes slid to his, the sole of her boot scuffed against the floorboards as she froze in place.
Illario’s ears rang, as if a barrel of gaatlock had gone off beside him. Another woman entered behind Constance, the golden glint of a dwarven-crafted prosthetic below her right knee snagging Illario’s interest for only a moment before Viago cleared his throat to break the silence. With a quick inhale, Constance squared her shoulders and forced a polite nod.
“Master Dellamorte,” she greeted him as if she’d practiced this very moment dozens of times. Turning to his grandmother, she offered a small bow of deference, “First Talon.”
Her hair was the same length, if not longer. The sharp, lacquered nails she wore a year ago had been cut short, left plain. Little use for the expensive dresses and luxury grooming she’d enjoyed under Viago’s roof. She didn’t run the same contracts she used to, drawing more blood in a fight than a bedroom these days, Illario presumed. Now she hunted gods, demons…
And Venatori, evidently.
“Assassin de Riva,” Caterina’s tone carried a hint of amusement, and Illario blinked himself free of the daze he’d found himself in, “You have returned to Treviso with a request, and yet you have not completed the contract you were sent away on?”
Constance lifted her chin, dragging her gaze from Illario to his grandmother.
“We found the Dreadwolf, but you might consider today’s request as an… extension.” She gestured to the woman next to her. “This is my colleague, Detective Neve Gallus. She’s helping me put together a team…”
The detective, who had been scrutinizing a stack of contracts on a nearby table, turned her head at the sound of her name. Shorter than Constance, her face was marked with healing cuts and bruises, dark hair sticking to the sweat on her forehead. The Treviso heat was not for everyone.
“Our target is a pair of elven gods,” Neve began. “At least, that’s what they call themselves. They’re ancient, blighted mages, which leaves us in need of a mage killer…”
As she continued, Constance’s attention wandered around the room, lingering on anything that was not Illario. He, however, could not bring himself to look away. How had she justified her use of blood magic while pursuing Venatori for the same perceived crime? Based on the black Tevinter-style mage’s robes she wore, Illario presumed she’d obtained a more formal magical education in Minrathous. Even so, there were at least four blades strapped at her waist and thighs, likely more disguised as pins in her hair. Insurance, in case the magic did not come through.
Or perhaps, a lack of confidence in her abilities.
“Lucanis Dellamorte,” Illario’s focus was recaptured as Neve spoke his cousin’s name, “we need your best, and your grandson had a reputation for bringing Venatori and blood mages to their knees.”
“The Demon of Vyrantium, they called him,” Caterina’s voice was thick with longing even now.
“That’s who we’re after.”
“Lucanis Dellamorte is dead.” Viago informed the detective coolly, “He was killed a year ago.”
“Dead?” Constance blurted, lips parted in disbelief, her gaze sliding to Illario’s, seeking confirmation.
“Dead,” he echoed. His own guilt began to snake its way through his veins, settling deep in his chest. He did not dare look away. Let her see his grief… not all of it had been a lie.
Beside Illario, Caterina twisted the crow-shaped head of her cane in one hand, her lips forming a thin line.
“What I say doesn’t leave this room,” Caterina began slowly, tapping her fingers on the crow’s beak one by one as she leaned forward.
For the second time that evening, Illario felt as if his legs might give out from beneath him.
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
His cousin was alive.
For a year, Caterina had kept her suspicions to herself. She’d tracked the Venatori, found where they’d kept Lucanis, and never said a word to Illario. Had she suspected him, or did she simply not believe him important enough to discuss such matters?
An entire year he’d believed Lucanis to be dead, an entire year he’d grieved…
His grandmother had known about Constance as well, knew she’d been coming, orchestrated their meeting knowing it would might Illario by surprise. Another test. One he’d incidentally passed, since the two hadn’t spoken since Constance’s brief exile. With the exception of the letters…
The ones he never replied to.
“We should talk,” Constance's fingertips curled around Illario’s bicep, slowing his pace to match hers as they walked along the canals. Behind them, Neve, the detective, was pretending not to listen, but doing a poor job of it.
“Later.” He shrugged her off. “Right now, I’m to take you to your boat. Apparently, this Ossuary lies beneath the sea. A fact I learned mere minutes ago.”
He stalked forward at a quicker pace, but she effortlessly matched it, falling into step beside him.
“You’re not happy Caterina kept this from you,” Constance mused.
“Would you be?” Illario hissed. “Lucanis is family. Maybe she thought I’d act too rash if it meant saving him. And now… who can say if he’s even still alive?”
As they reached the docks, a small rowboat rocked on the water, one of the Crows’ mages expectantly waiting. Constance motioned Neve ahead, lingering behind as her companion stepped aboard.
“Your cousin is alive,” she reassured Illario, gripping his shoulder gently. “We’ll find him.”
He nearly shuddered under her touch, the memory of what it had once meant to him. Once, he might have leaned into it, taken comfort in it. Now, it was only a reminder of what he’d done in her absence, who he’d done it with, how Constance might look at him if she ever knew.
“Sure,” Illario dismissed her hand with a wave. “If you say so.”
With the slightest press of his fingertips to the small of her back, he nudged her toward the boat. Constance climbed inside, holding onto the lip of the canal as the mage removed the rope securing the boat in place. When Illario did not join them, she frowned.
“You’re not coming?”
He shook his head, scanning the rooftops to his left.
“It’s possible we’ve been watched. You play the role of alluring hero. I know Treviso. If we have a tail, I have a better chance at distracting their interest.”
Constance opened her mouth, as if she might protest his decision, before her hand slipped from the eroding bricks at the canal’s edge and into her lap. They watched each other in silence until the boat turned toward the sea, before Illario rolled his shoulders and ducked into the nearest alley.
He had work to do.
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
Illario braced both hands on the meeting table in the Crow’s Nest, practicing his breathwork. Every effort to keep himself composed was a failure, but perhaps it would play in his favor. Let the other Crows think him a mess… what man wouldn’t be?
Behind him, Teia let out a soft gasp.
“Lucanis?” Viago breathed.
“What happened here?” Asked yet another revenant voice from his past.
“A message.” Illario brought his fist down upon the tabletop, rattling the bottles of ink and wine that rested on it. “From Zara Renata!”
Illario nearly choked on his own lie, but the hoarseness in his voice would be convincing enough. Had Zara been involved in the attack, there would have been far more bloodshed, and instead of being locked in her rooms at the villa, Caterina would truly have been dead.
No, Illario had orchestrated the entire thing himself, to cover himself. He did not know what he feared more—Lucanis finding out what he’d done, or Zara finding out he’d been merciful.
He whirled, and steadied himself against it as he took in the sight of his cousin, whom he’d presumed dead for more than a year, and the woman who he’d known so intimately that was exiled just prior, standing side by side… allies…
A muscle spasmed along Illario’s jaw, and he clenched it tightly. Summoning a lifetime of training and every bit of composure he could muster, he forced himself to approach Lucanis.
“I can’t believe it,” he braced a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “You’re home.”
“Zara…” Lucanis grasped Illario’s forearm for a moment and squeezed before removing his hold and stepping to the side as he examined the surrounding wreckage. “Her people got this close?”
“The woman who runs the prison?” Constance asked as Illario stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest.
“The Venatori witch who captured me.” Lucanis replied.
“Revenge for the breakout, I wonder?” Constance glanced at Illario, looking him over as if she were… concerned. He averted his gaze, shifting uncomfortably.
Lucanis’ gaze darted around the room once again.
“Where’s Caterina?”
Constance looked to Illario, and he tensed, avoiding her gaze. Across the room, Teia stifled a quiet sob.
“She’s…”
Viago rested both hands on her shoulders, pulling her close.
“The Venatori got her in the confusion.”
“I get one of you back…” Illario picked up a vase from the floor and threw it against the wall. As it smashed into pieces, Constance flinched, “only to lose the other!”
“I…” For a moment, Constance appeared as though she would reach for Illario, but she turned to Lucanis instead. “I’m so sorry.”
He waved her condolences away, putting his hands on his hips and widening his stance as he stared at the floor. “I need to work.”
“Are you sure?” Teia asked. “You should take some time.”
“I don’t need time. I need a target.”
Illario’s lip curled. Of course, Lucanis the martyr, always eager to work through his grief.
“You just got here, and already you want to leave again?” He snarled.
“Caterina gave me a contract. I’m not breaking the last deal she ever made. And I owe Rook…”
His cousin looked to Constance with such reverence that Illario thought he might be sick. This was Illario’s doing as well, whatever shared ventures were forming between the two of them.
“Once that’s done, I’ll come home.” Lucanis finished.
“I’ll return him in one piece,” Constance reassured Illario.
He forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Thank you.”
“And we’ll be paying a visit to Zara Renata as well—”
“We are under attack!” Viago interjected, “Antaam on one side, and now Venatori on the other? Forget revenge–”
“No, Viago!” Teia stopped him. “She’s right. Zara came for us here. In my house. She took Caterina from my house! Rook, Lucanis—you find her and cut her heart out. Vi and I will hold down the fort.”
Constance smiled. “I’ll be sure to give her your regards, Teia.”
Illario stared at the wall and wondered how he’d managed to make a bad situation worse.
Constance de Riva, Illario Dellamorte's short-lived romance, has been banished from Treviso. Too proud to succumb to heartache, Illario finds a new ally instead...
Thank you @dafuckedupshipsweek for hosting!
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
12: Despair
Pairing: Illario Dellamorte x Fem Rook (Antivan Crow/Blood Mage)
Warnings: (18+). Please check AO3 for detailed chapter warnings and tags.
Word Count: 1.3k
notes: This installment is part of a longer fic, but suitable to read on its own. If interested, you can Start from the beginning (but only if you want to.)
Read below the cut or on AO3 (if you feel like making my day with a kudos/comment)
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
In the wake of Constance’s banishment from Treviso, Illario’s melancholy had been oppressive, seeping from the floorboards of his room, wrapping itself around the four posts of his bed frame. Lucanis returned from contract days later, greeted with Caterina’s usual dramatics as she smattered his cheeks with kisses, smudging his skin with plum-colored lipstick.
Once she’d finished fussing over his hair, the beard he’d grown since she’d seen him last, she wailed about the torment of Illario’s company, the agony of his incompetence. As if he were an alley cat mewling for attention, rather than imprisoned by her every whim. Lucanis chuckled, clapping a hand on Illario’s shoulder, brushing it off as a lighthearted joke between them all. Always obedient, never questioning. He wouldn’t dare deny Caterina her jabs.
That unchallenged loyalty would kill him one day.
For weeks, every interaction with another Crow was a test of Illario’s ability to keep his blade stowed. Once, he considered slitting the throat of a fledgling whose stare had lingered too long from across the casino, just for the release that came after a kill.
He hadn’t spoken to Viago, the sight of the Fifth Talon inducing more disgust. His sister was sleeping on piss-stained sheets in a Minrathous brothel, chasing fables with an ex-inquisition storyteller, and all Viago had done about it was cling to his routines. Every time they passed one another in the Diamond, Illario would suck in a sharp breath and clench his teeth, averting his gaze. Just in case looks really could kill.
Relief came in the form of a letter, addressed to Illario in a hasty yet elegant scrawl. Teia had slipped it into his jacket pocket during her weekly visit to the Villa, barely sparing Illario a glance as she sought out his grandmother in the gardens. Of course de Riva was smart enough to have the Seventh Talon deliver her correspondence. No mail passed through the villa without Caterina snooping in it first.
An odd sense of relief overtook Illario as he traced over the paragraphs detailing Constance’s homesickness. She bemoaned the change in weather, longed for Antivan cuisine and down pillows. Illario’s heart quickened as he reread each line detailing the loneliness of her empty bed, the things she’d have done if given the chance for a goodbye…
He had to see her.
He never expected he’d regret it.
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
It hadn’t taken much investigation to find Varric’s favored drinking spots, but while Illario had expected to find Constance drowning her sorrows at the bottom of a bottle, he instead found her… happy.
He’d been watching them for three days now. The first night, as she and Varric played chess, something in the conversation grew serious, and her smile fell away. Varric leaned forward in his seat, that same reassuring grimace he’d given Illario in the Opera House as he patted her shoulder. Kid, Illario made out the word on his lips before the man launched into some sort of speech or story.
So this is what Constance wanted: pet names and paternal guidance. Someone to listen to her woes, to give her what her father, her brother, would not. But they’d had something, hadn’t they? A deeper understanding? Intimacy? Or was this the lesson Caterina had tried to teach Illario all his youth?
A few weeks with Constance de Riva had turned him into a lovesick fool.
Occasionally, a red-headed dwarven woman with a smile that could disarm even the most wretched of tavern brawlers would join them. The two seemed to bond just as quickly. Constance was hardly the picture of misery painted in her letter. No, now Illario was the miserable one. She was fine without him.
Cheeks flushed, smiling, no sign of the cool demeanor she’d served Illario during their first encounters, Constance doubled over with laughter at another one of Varric’s jokes. From Illario’s corner booth, he couldn’t hear to pass judgement of whether Varric’s humor warranted such a reaction.
Having seen enough, Illario adjusted the hood of his cloak, ensuring his face remained obscured, and pushed his empty cup away. Another drink and he was sure to do something regrettable. He’d lick his wounds and go back to Treviso. Forget all about this. He and Constance had been lonely, two strangers thrust into the same place for too long. Illario was enchanted by her beauty, her power, pleasure… nothing more.
But as he poised himself to take his leave, a bottle of Antivan Red appeared on the center of the table with a dull thud, and a shadow slid into the booth opposite him, obscuring his view of Constance.
Any other night, Illario would not have hesitated to take her home. Long, black hair, sharp amber eyes, full lips that curled into a feline smile as she appraised him. His new companion was certainly older than Illario was, but in a way that was difficult to distinguish. She could have said five years, could have said twenty, and he’d have believed her. There was something dark to the ethereal beauty that hung around her. Unnatural. No glamour he’d seen before, but an undeniable power that clung to her like expensive perfume. It felt familiar and foreign, all at once. Everything about the woman told him to keep looking, yet everything he’d learned in his life begged him to look away.
“You’re beautiful,” Illario said truthfully as he shook his head, “but I’m not good company tonight.”
“That’s a shame.” Her long black nails tapped against the freshly waxed tabletop. “You’re exactly what I was looking for.”
Illario’s eyes remained fixed on Constance and Varric as they rose from their table and disappeared out the tavern front doors, oblivious to his presence. Now vexed by the interruption, he slid his eyes back to the stranger.
“Unfortunately, I’ve lost my appetite for sex. Try me again another evening.”
The woman chuckled and nudged her knee between his thighs under the table.
“Who said anything about sex, Illario Dellamorte?”
He recoiled, one hand instinctively reaching for the dagger in his belt.
“No need for that.” She purred, clicking her tongue and filling her goblet with wine until crimson kissed the rim. “I’m looking to make an ally this evening, not an enemy.”
“Then you may want to start introductions with your name, not mine.”
“Zara Renata.” She flashed a set of brilliantly white teeth. “I’m a Magister, here in the city.”
Illario imagined her sharp canines breaking the skin of his neck and bleeding him dry, a beautiful monster from one of Caterina’s bedtime stories.
“Your grandmother favors your cousin, Lucanis, to take her place as First Talon of the Antivan Crows, does she not?” Zara asked, now pouring wine into Illario’s empty cup. “But it’s you who really wants it, or so I hear.”
Illario lowered his hood, pitching forward.
“Where did you get that information?”
Zara ignored him until the bottle was empty, then set it aside. She grilled the table, nails raking down the wood grain as she spoke in a low purr.
“You would sacrifice anything, bleed for it, even…” Zara tilted her head and smiled, “Wouldn’t you?”
Illario studied her for a long moment. His attention flickered to Constance’s now vacant seat across the bar, and he nearly flinched at the responding pang in his chest. Against his better judgment, he swiped the wine Zara had poured him. Her ravenous eyes tracked every movement, the corner of her mouth twitching as he drank.
With nothing to lose, Illario pursed his ruby-stained lips together, goblet balanced in one hand, and sank back into his seat.
“Caterina will kill you just for the pleasure of taking something away from me. In that room, I’m your liability. So when I open these doors, remember that you hated me once.”
“What if I never stopped?”
-What It Is to Burn, Chapter 11, Desperation
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
Pairing: Illario Dellamorte x Fem Rook (Antivan Crow/Blood Mage)
Rating: Explicit.
Chapter Summary: After being caught together by Viago, Illario and Constance attend her formal judgment by the Talons at the Opera House.
Warnings/tags: (18+ only). SMUT! Please check AO3 for detailed chapter warnings and tags.
Word Count: 3.2k
notes: This fic begins prior to the events of the Veilguard, and lasts through their duration. New here? Start from the beginning (but only if you want to.)
Read below the cut or on AO3!
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
It took a fortnight for Illario Dellamorte to come to the conclusion that Constance de Riva was the most dangerous woman in Antiva.
At least to him.
Heavy rain knocked at the windows, begging to be let through the panes. In the distance, the low rumble of thunder could easily have been mistaken for the beating of the Antaam’s war drums. And yet, like a feline in a beam of sun, Constance stretched contentedly over Illario’s stomach, unfazed by it all. The mattress dipped under her elbow, and the side of her face wrinkled where it rested against her palm. Her free hand traced delicate lines over the hollow of his throat. Rather than snarl and retreat, he leaned into her touch.
Just another way she’d disarmed him.
“What are you thinking about?” Constance tilted her head, hair slipping from behind her neck and falling to frame Illario’s face. Darkness painted her naked form in shades of blue and grey, and his imagination filled in the rest. He did not need to see her clearly to find the smattering of freckles that dusted her hips and thighs, nor the faint scar under her jaw. In his mind’s eye, she wore a smug grin as she stared down at him. As if she’d beaten him. As if she’d won.
She had. But he would never admit it.
“Those poisonous nails of yours have grazed my skin more times than I could count. Are you putting antivenin in my coffee?”
Constance threw her head back and sighed. “You really believed I paint my nails with adder venom?”
“I’ve never known Viago to be a liar.”
“He’s a Crow. We’re all liars.”
“He probably hoped it would keep me away,” Illario took her wrist and drug her down into the mess of sheets with him. “Unfortunately, he was unsuccessful.”
Constance let out a breathy laugh, and a strange tightness coiled in Illario’s chest. He liked having something so powerful become so vulnerable in his arms. After a lifetime of being a burden, he liked being needed.
Illario rolled onto his side, claiming his turn to stare down at her. High cheekbones, the cupid’s bow of her full lips as her smile wavered. Comfortable, but never too much. Always a twitch at the corner of her eye, assessing his motives.
“You’re quiet this evening.” She tugged at a loose strand of his hair. “You’re scheming.”
“We should run a few contracts together, once we settle this mess.”
Not a usually dangerous suggestion from Crow to Crow, yet it somehow felt like he’d lost his footing while scouting a mark from a rooftop. He was slipping, overexposed.
Constance said nothing. The silver knobs of the dresser refracted a flash of lightning from outside, and she tilted her head to count the seconds until the thunder growled its response. When it finally came, she still did not have an answer for him.
“Not like the ones before.” Illario explained, desperate to fill the silence, “I could ensure you never had to bed another bratty noble or political advisor…”
He left out the other part. Where it was just as much for her as it was for him.
“Those are the only contracts I’m good for,” she replied quietly.
“Only because you’ve never been assigned anything else. You took out twenty Antaam on your own. That’s not nothing.”
“I won’t argue with that,” Constance muttered as she rolled away from him. “It’s certainly been something to the Talons.”
Illario cupped his palm against her bare shoulder, fingertips gently curling against her skin. Even the smallest distance made him ache. Caterina had warned repeatedly against repeat bedmates. What would his grandmother think of him now? Shared meals and hours of pillow talk… she might have Illario castrated for such a lapse in judgement.
Dread coiled tight in his stomach, and he tugged at Constance gently, drawing her against him once again. She stared up at him, and he slid one finger underneath her jaw, drawing a line to her chin before pressing his lips against hers roughly. Constance knew the routine, and her hand slipped between his legs, the tips of her nails tracing up his inner thigh as his cock twitched.
He knew what she needed, as she did him. They’d fuck until the uneasiness went away. It usually went away… for a little while.
She kissed his collarbone, lips dragging against his skin as she slid beneath the covers. Illario settled back against the pillows, his anxieties draining away as she sank lower, lower…
The slam of the front door made them both flinch in unison. Moving on instinct, Illario threw off the sheets and lunged for his dagger on the nightstand.
“Constance!” Viago called out from the foyer, the creak of the stairs beneath his boots carrying up two levels. At this rate he’d make it to the door in…
“Fuck!” Illario yanked his trousers from the floor. They’d gotten too comfortable. Sloppy. This could have been Antaam, a rival assassin, a contract kill, and they’d have been caught off guard.
They could not afford such mistakes.
On her knees beside the bed, Constance muttered a string of curses, raking one hand through her tangled hair while the other groped in the dark for her clothes. Knuckles rapped against the bedroom door and she froze, staring at Illario wide-eyed like a Halla.
“Are you awake?” Viago asked through the door, voice was surprisingly calm. Guilt from their previous encounter, most likely. His footsteps retreated, and Illario sucked in a sharp breath, knowing it was his room he’d check next.
His empty room, the door cracked open, bed still nearly made.
With a groan of surrender, he fastened the front of his trousers and unlocked the door. No use wasting Viago’s time. It wouldn’t be Illario’s first time caught with his pants down, after all. Not even the first time by Viago, come to think of it. They’d run a few contracts together in Antiva City a few years back. Illario was popular in Antiva City. Viago, his unfortunate roommate… not so much.
“What are you doing?” Constance hissed, tugging her robe around herself.
“He’s going to find out either way.”
He turned the handle and pushed the door open. Viago paused halfway down the hall and scowled at Illario in the dim light. Like a hawk sighting its prey, his eyes locked on Illario, sweeping over him until he reached the bedroom again, and his sister was finally in view.
“Get dressed and come to the Opera House.” He growled through clenched teeth, pointedly ignoring Illario’s presence, “The Talons are ready to make their decision.”
Illario winced as Viago slammed the door shut behind him, as if he could not stomach the sight of them together.
“Well,” Constance bit her lip, gaze fixed on the wall as if she could see her brother through it. “If he wasn’t planning on signing off on my execution tonight, he might be on his way to arrange yours.”
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
Illario could not remember a time the Opera House was so quiet.
He escorted Constance alone down an empty corridor, his hand resting on her lower back. She wore plain fighting leathers, her boots silent against the freshly waxed floor. The windows to their right stretched all the way to the ceiling, half her face illuminated by the moon as she studied the gardens on the other side of the panes. To their left, two long shadows inked across white marble, flickering where the light was interrupted by stretches of empty wall.
“I think I prefer it on performance night.” Constance muttered, stealing a glance over her shoulder. Illario did the same—it was impossible to feel as if he weren’t being followed.
“If it’s any consolation, they still might make you sing.”
“Torture jokes. How kind of you.”
“Just trying to lighten the mood.”
When they reached a pair of arched oak doors, Illario’s hand slid from her back, hesitating on the iron handle to the main hall.
“Don’t speak unless they speak to you, don’t look Caterina in the eye, and do not let her believe your time with me was anything short of miserable.”
“Worried about keeping up appearances? Am I a liability now, rather than your ally?”
Illario released the door handle and braced both palms on Constance’s shoulders. Her smile faded quickly as he leaned in close, lowering his voice.
“Caterina will kill you just for the pleasure of taking something away from me. In that room, I’m your liability. So when I open these doors, remember that you hated me once.”
“What if I never stopped?”
Illario's responding laugh was something closer to a sigh of relief.
Eight Talons sat on the Opera House stage. Illario hadn’t bothered to learn the names or faces of the newest members, the ones replacing losses from House Arainai, Valisti, and Balazar. Nor had he cared much for the recruit claiming House Kortez’s seat after he massacred their entire bloodline. But he did recognize Bolivar Nero between Teia and Viago. It must have been the Sixth Talon’s unassuming demeanor that led Emil Kortez to save him for last. A shame he’d survived and not some of the others—Illario found House Balazar’s replacement far less easy on the eyes than Dante had been.
From her seat, Caterina leaned to whisper something to Heir, standing behind her. She kept her attention on Constance and Illario as they approached the stage.
“Assassin de Riva,” Caterina leaned back in her chair, her gloved hand curling around the crow’s head adorning the top of her cane. Its ruby eyes glinted like a warning. “You know why you are here?”
Constance straightened her posture, lifting her chin.
“Yes, First Talon.” She replied, voice clear. Proper. His grandmother would like that.
“We’ll take a vote then.” Caterina announced, waving away Viago, “The Fifth Talon will abstain, of course.”
As Viago rose from his seat and crossed the stage, it took everything in Illario not to scoff. So formal. And for what? A slap on the wrist before they sent her on her way? The Antaam were in Treviso. Surely they could not be so bored as to keep drawing this out.
“Master Dellamorte.”
Illario lifted a brow as House Valisti’s Talon addressed him with a surprisingly deep, smooth voice.
“You’ve been her jailer. Why don’t you prepare her for judgement?”
The mocking smile on Illario’s lips faded. Without turning her head, Constance lowered her chin and mouthed, “What is he talking about?”
Illario stepped behind her, instilling every bit of indifference he could into each movement as he reached for the dagger in his belt.
“A knife to the throat while the count is taken.” He murmured, bringing her body flush against him, holding one arm across her chest while he poised his weapon at her throat, “So that if the decision is made to execute you, you’re dead before you can try to run.”
Constance’s eyes flicked down to the blade glinting at the base of her throat.
“Oh.”
Illario was careful as he pressed it closer, drawing the smallest bead of blood before pulling away. Constance hissed with pain, her gaze fixed on the Talons as they spoke amongst themselves.
“You’re eager.” She said through her teeth.
“I’m providing you with a weapon, should you need to use it.”
“Where’s all that confidence in my innocence? Wasn’t it you who assured me I had nothing to worry about?”
Illario’s eyes met his grandmother’s.
“Consider me worried.”
He’d made a mistake, he realized that now. The morning at the breakfast table when she’d first asked about Constance had been a test. Caterina Dellamorte did not ask questions she did not already know the answer to. She knew Illario had met Constance before and saw through his feigned disinterest for what it was: curiosity. And given the opportunity, she’d indulged it—ensured he’d been the one to oversee her house arrest. She wanted them to get close, because there was no one, save her enemies, that Caterina Dellamorte loved to take from than Illario. She’d execute Constance right in front of him, just to see whether Illario could keep a straight face as he watched her bleed out. Whatever she thought she’d seen, it was imperative his grandmother assume Constance to be just another dalliance.
The First Talon brought the end of her cane down against the stage floorboards. Illario suppressed his instinct to recoil. The sound had often been a preamble to many a childhood beating.
“Talons, you will choose: death or atonement,” Caterina turned to the Eighth Talon, “The vote will start with House Arainai.”
“Death.” They answered as quickly as they were called upon.
Constance flinched, and Illario tightened his arm against her. It was the most comfort he could offer, and he hoped it appeared to the others as a safeguard against her escape.
Beside the Eighth Talon, Teia bristled, but her voice was calm as she followed with, “Atonement.”
“Atonement,” Bolivar said, holding Teia’s piercing gaze as he gave his answer. The Seventh Talon always had some sway over him.
The Fourth Talon from the unknown house hesitated before giving his decision.
“Death,” he said, looking down the row toward Caterina, seeking her approval. Illario might have laughed under different circumstances. A waste of time.
“Make it quick,” Constance said softly, “When they give you the word, please just—”
“Shut up,” Illario growled, “They haven’t even finished the vote yet.”
Two weeks ago he would have slit Constance’s throat without question just to convince Caterina, and himself, that he could not—would never—care for anyone. But as he held his breath for House Valisti’s vote, he knew he was incapable of killing Constance de Riva. His eyes swept down the row of Talons as a primal part of him yearned for one of them to point a blade in her direction, so that he might have the pleasure of tearing out the throat of its wielder. He almost hoped his grandmother would be the first.
The Third Talon smiled as they gave their answer. “Death.”
Illario’s blade quivered at Constance’s clavicle only for a moment before he composed himself.
“Use blood magic on House Valisti, then Arainai,” he said into Constance’s ear. “Viago and Teia will likely take our side, which just leaves–”
“I won’t fight, Illario,” Constance said firmly.
“Atonement.” The Second Talon—House Balazar—announced. Illario might have sighed with relief, if not for the smug expression on Caterina’s face as she watched him.
It was a shame de Riva had gotten in the middle of their family drama. If it were Lucanis who had gone to Salle that evening so many weeks ago, Lucanis with whom Constance found herself entangled, Caterina would have been delighted. This entire ordeal would be dismissed in favor of wedding them and creating another generation of potential Dellamorte heirs.
But instead, Constance had met Illario. And his grandmother intended to sentence her to death for it.
“Viago,” Caterina’s voice was light, as if requesting a cup of tea, “what discipline have you chosen for your sister, should her life be spared? I’d like to see if it might influence my vote.”
Illario had paid little attention to the Fifth Talon as he stood to the side of the stage, arms folded. He was the very picture of indifference to anyone who did not know him. But Illario caught the subtle crease between his brows, the barely perceptible tightness of his lips, the immaculately polished boot that tapped faintly on the marble beneath him.
“I do,” he cleared his throat and peeled off stage right, the sound of a door opening. When he returned, he was followed by a dwarven man with a large crossbow strapped to his back.
“He was with the captives the night I killed the Antaam,” Constance whispered, staring with her lips slightly parted. In all this mess, she had the luxury of not having to conceal a single emotion. “He used to be with the Inquisition.”
“And now he’s here to shoot you with an arrow?” Illario mumbled, earning a jab in the ribs from Constance’s elbow.
“This is Varric Tethras,” Viago announced, leading him to address the Crows, “he has offered a contract in Minrathous, hunting down a defector from the Inquisition. I propose House de Riva take it. My sister will serve one year in exile while she sees it through. Longer, if that’s what it takes.”
Caterina smiled, and Illario felt sick.
“Will it be a sufficient punishment, Mr. Tethras?”
Varric shrugged. “Long hours, thankless work, maybe a trip to the Fade…” There was a performance to his demeanor, but no trace of nerves. Viago hadn’t threatened him into this position, Varric had likely come to the Crows on his own. But what did he want with Constance? Was he truly just grateful?
“I am satisfied.” Caterina looked to Constance, “How do you find this proposal, Signora de Riva?”
“I accept.” She said hoarsely, then repeated again, clearly, “I accept.”
The First Talon nodded and pushed to her feet.
“The girl lives, then. Let us be done with this.”
Illario released his hold on Constance, shoving her away as if the blade against her neck were the equivalent of holding his hand in an open flame. Constance stumbled forward a few steps and turned toward him, her mouth parted, a million emotions on her face—shock, despair, panic, confusion…
“Illario!”
Caterina’s cane snapped against the wooden stage floorboards, and his head jerked in her direction. His grandmother shuffled to the staircase, motioning expectantly at him for assistance.
“Get your things and get on that boat to Minrathous as quickly as you can,” he muttered to Constance, “before she changes her mind.”
Viago was stalking toward them now, any relief gained from Constance’s sentencing useless against Caterina’s growing impatience. As the Fifth Talon passed Illario, their shoulders collided, a silent warning that Viago would not be facilitating any prolonged goodbyes. Illario turned on his heel and started in the direction of the stage.
“Illario—” Constance protested as her brother took her by the shoulders and pivoted her toward the exit.
“Don’t worry,” he dropped his chin as he glanced back. “You’ll be seeing me again, de Riva.”
Illario gave Varric a curt nod at the bottom of the steps as they passed, uncertain if he wanted it to convey gratitude or a warning. The other man gave a sympathetic smile in response, and Illario knew if he’d seen through them, then Caterina certainly had, too.
His grandmother huffed as Illario offered her his arm, assisting her to the ballroom floor. Another test to see if he’d give away their involvement. Tend to his grandmother, or say his goodbyes. He knew well enough to hold up what little remained of his facade.
Behind them, Teia spoke in gentle whispers to Constance. Illario listened to their footsteps retreating in the opposite direction as he led his grandmother toward the gardens and back to the villa.
I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.
“But we are not friends, Constance de Riva.”
“What does that make us, then?”
“Something much, much worse.”
Thank you so much @illarioappreciation and @lustaniasaxon for hosting Illarook Week! It's been a delight to read/see what everyone has contributed!
My contribution for today's prompt is in the form of Chapter 10 of my Illarook fic, What It Is to Burn. This fic is basically my answer to the daydreams questions: What if the Crows assigned Illario to Rook’s house arrest following her Antaam fuckup while the Talons deliberated her punishment? How would Viago de Riva react to his sister becoming involved with Illario Dellamorte? What if Rook is the first person to believe Illario is anything more than the Other Dellamorte?
Start from the beginning if you want, or you can just enjoy a bunch of domestic meanie tension here as a one time read, if that's what you're into! These chapters fit together but are also written to work individually-ish, too. Happenings begin prior to the events of the Veilguard, and last through their duration.
Rating: Explicit. Please check AO3 for detailed chapter warnings and tags.
Word Count: 3k
Read on AO3 or below the cut!
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
“A demon swarm?”
“Reanimated bones, spirits… it was madness. All because my cousin couldn’t resist stabbing some globe keeping the veil together.”
“I’ve never heard of anything like it.”
“Consider yourself lucky.” Illario replied with a shudder, stabbing at a forkful of paella. As the days wore on, his seat in the dining room had shifted closer to Constance’s. Tonight, six vacant chairs surrounded them, a pair of candles burning at the ends of their wicks between them. Under the table, his knee occasionally brushed hers, the leather of his trousers sticking briefly in the summer humidity. Despite years of experience in furtive glances and passing caresses, Constance could not ascertain if it was on purpose.
“I still cannot believe you killed an Orlesian noble with a theater puppet.” Constance’s plate scraped against the wood as she pushed it aside. “You almost make it sound fun.”
“Val Royeaux is lovely this time of year. Have you visited?”
He took a bite, lifting his gaze to hers as he waited for a response.
“I’ve not had the chance. Though now I worry it may not live up to your stories.”
Illario swallowed, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin before draping it over the empty mussel shells on his plate.
“I would happily show you the sights, to ensure it does not.”
He reached for his wine, and Constance did the same, the silence suddenly feeling quite deafening. Their eyes met briefly, and Illario flashed her an uncharacteristically soft smile around the rim of his glass. As her cheeks warmed, Constance cleared her throat and looked to the left, reprimanding herself for blushing at a man she’d shared a bed with for the past six nights.
Motives, she reminded herself, people always conceal their motives.
Still, she pursed her wine-stained lips, leaning over the table and balancing her glass in one hand as she studied him.
“I might let you.”
A sort of daze overcame both of them, perhaps from the alcohol, but vanished quickly as Illario cocked his head and frowned.
“What is—”
“Are you armed?” He asked, voice low.
“No–”
“Do it quickly then.”
On instinct, she set aside her drink and snatched up her dinner knife. Not ideal, but it would do in a pinch. Illario drew a dagger from his belt and rose, beckoning with two fingers as he silently edged into the hall. As Constance followed, she caught a faint creaking on the stairs in the foyer. Illario guided her by the small of her back to the nearest wall and crouched on the opposite side of the stairs, waiting for the intruder to appear.
“Maker,” a voice called from the landing, dry with amusement, “a week inside has made you two paranoid.”
The tension in Constance’s shoulders evaporated, her breath returning to her as she stepped out from her hiding place in time for Teia to reach the top stair.
“You could consider knocking.” She scolded, greeting the Seventh Talon with a kiss on each cheek.
“I somehow doubt you would have answered.” Teia arched a brow, attention dropping to the cutlery still clutched in Constance’s fist. “And what, exactly, were you planning on doing with that? Buttering me to death?”
“I…” Constance stared at the knife, then abandoned it atop a nearby bookshelf. “Better question. What are you doing here?”
“While I’m not displeased to see you,” Illario interjected, sheathing his dagger at his hip. “I am curious as well. Have the Talons made any decisions?”
Teia’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes flicked between them before she finally gestured toward the den.
“Come, sit.”
The hearth cracked softly, its fire now a smoldering pile of embers and ash. As Teia settled into one of the couches, Constance coaxed the flames back to life with a lazy wave, taking a seat opposite her friend.
“Vi sent me to check in,” Teia began, tracking Illario’s every movement as he lowered himself down beside Constance with practiced ease. “He was certain the two of you would have killed each other by now.”
“My attempts thus far have been unsuccessful.” Constance shot Illario a brief but pointed look of warning meant to discourage his overfamiliarity. He ignored it and reclined into the cushions, stretching his arms across the sofa behind them.
“She’s been quite the handful…” At the base of her neck, he hooked a ringlet of Constance’s hair around his finger and gave it a soft tug. She flinched, flashing him a scowl as he smoothed his hand against the couch cushion, thrumming his fingers against it. “I may need to renegotiate my rate.”
“Has she?” Teia asked flatly. She leveled Constance with a knowing look, and her stomach sank. Illario’s salacious nature was nothing new, but his lack of subtlety was an obvious overcompensation. Perhaps he wanted to be found out.
“Ignore him.” Constance forced a knowing smile, not bothering to cover up what was obvious to her friend. “Did you bring news?”
“Deliberations are ongoing…” Teia’s demeanor sobered as she chose her words with care, “The matter has been tabled in favor of the growing Antaam problem. Your… interruption stirred a hornet’s nest. They’ve already quartered sections of Treviso and claimed them outright.”
“Is prolonging my execution part of my punishment, then?”
“The newer Talons are difficult, but it is only because they have something to prove.” There was fatigue in Teia’s voice now, “But you know Vi and myself will fight for you.”
“How predictable.” Illario muttered, fingertips subtly grazing the nape of Constance’s neck, a brief gesture of reassurance, “Crow politics.”
“But you shouldn’t worry,” Teia continued, “We have sway with Houses Nero and Balazar. And Caterina has been surprisingly open-minded.”
“Ah, yes,” irritation crept through Illario’s facade of indifference, “because my grandmother is so well known for her altruism.”
“Basta! You are not helping.” Teia snapped her fingers at him as if he were a cat scratching at the furniture before turning back to Constance. “There is concern about your attempt at desertion...”
“Desertion?” Constance pitched forward. “I didn’t even leave the city’s borders!”
“But you did leave your cell.”
“Because Viago sent him!” Constance glanced sharply at Illario.
“As far as the Talons know, you acted alone. It’s best kept that way. If it came to light that anyone aided you, it might give the impression…”
“That Viago had a fleeting moment of compassion for his sister?”
“That his judgement was clouded.” Illario interjected, “Which the Fifth Talon cannot afford. Can he, Teia?”
She shook her head once.
“It would cost him his life. Viago has many enemies who would gladly see his seat vacant.”
“Even some of his allies might enjoy seeing him hang.” Illario mused.
“You broke me out.” Constance said suddenly, turning to Illario, “This is–”
“Not on me.” He growled, a warning in his tone. “You chose to play the hero.”
“That guard didn’t need to die!”
Illario’s gaze shifted to the bookcase across the room, jaw tightening.
“If he hadn’t,” he said quietly, “you would have.”
Constance flinched, then stared at the floor. As much as she loathed to admit it, he was right. It was her actions that had set this off, Viago and Illario had only tried to contain the mess.
“Illario…” Teia said at last, breaking the silence, “could the ladies have the room?”
Constance lifted her head and found Illario watching her keenly. His arms were folded over his chest, expression unreadable. She’d expected anger, disgust. Instead, she found something dangerously close to… concern.
“As you wish.”
He tore his gaze from her and pushed off the couch, swiftly disappearing down the hall. Constance watched him go, fully aware he would never stray out of earshot.
“So, how long have you been sleeping together?”
Her head whipped around, eyes wide, and Teia wagged a finger, shaking her head.
“Don’t insult me by acting surprised, we’re in the same line of work, dear. You sniffed out Viago and I long ago. Sloppy to assume I’m not capable of the same.”
With a huff of defeat, Constance glanced over her shoulder before answering.
“A week?” She’d lost track of time, “It’s nothing serious.”
The Seventh Talon snorted a laugh.
“You’re sharing meals and a bed. This is less a house arrest and more a honeymoon!”
“We can barely stand one another.”
“Plenty of Antivan love stories begin with a knife to the throat. Though he looks at you like he would kill for you, de Riva.”
“Don’t House name me, Cantori! I thought we were friends.” Constance whined. “It’s a job, he’s been hired to kill for me. You just caught him off guard when you arrived.”
Teia smiled, a playful gleam of doubt in her eyes.
“I wasn’t talking about when I arrived.”
She pushed up from the couch, nodding toward the hall.
“I’m needed elsewhere, and you seem to have everything you need here.”
“Teia…” Constance caught her gently by the arm. “Viago will not be pleased… if he finds out.”
“Then you best ensure he does not.” She winked and gave Constance’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, turning toward the stairs.
“You are taking…”
“Let’s not have this discussion,” Constance begged, escorting her to the landing.
Teia grinned and put up both hands in surrender.
“Alright, I’ll let it go. Just keep in mind the consequences of honeymoons…”
“Goodnight, Cantori!” Constance sang, ejecting her friend from her home with a loving but firm shove. She slammed the door shut and pressed her back flat against it, lifting her head to find Illario watching from the railing above.
“How much did you hear?”
“Everything, of course.” He waited for her to reach the top of the stairs before flopping onto the sofa. “We both know Teia’s request for privacy was a respectful formality.”
“So you eavesdropped.”
Illario stretched out across the cushions and kicked his legs up on its arm. “Does that surprise you?”
Constance frowned and joined him, sitting on the edge of the cushion beside his hip. Illario watched her for a moment, then groaned.
“You’re overthinking things. If they wanted you dead, they would have done it quickly. The Talons do not play with their prey.”
“Does Caterina?” Constance asked, resting an elbow on the back of the sofa as she leaned over him. A wry smile spread across his face.
“Certainly, but her idea of play is not locking you in the comfort of your own home with the likes of me. Unless she intends to torment us both…” He tugged her down beside him, wrapping his arms around her.
“In which case…” he murmured in her ear, “we’ve outsmarted her.”
Constance rested her head on his chest, watching the flames dance in the fireplace, enclosed by soot-covered brick.
“Teia seems to think you and I are too friendly.”
“I heard.” Illario stroked the small of her back absentmindedly, staring at the ceiling. “But we are not friends, Constance de Riva.”
She lifted her head, resting her chin on his sternum. “What does that make us, then?”
Illario glanced down at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Something much, much worse.”
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
Curled on a leather armchair in Viago’s study, Constance turned the page of a novella she’d brought out from the depths of her reading backlog. Rain hammered against the windowpane, keeping the villa halls dark and the streets quiet.
Uncharacteristically quiet himself, Illario sulked in the opposite chair, an ankle crossed over his knee as he rested his temple against two fingers. He’d turned up in the last hour, and she’d pointedly ignored his dramatic sighs for attention ever since. Still, as far as punishments went, things could be worse.
Distracted and finally out of patience, Constance lifted a brow and lowered her book.
“Are you brooding or just bored?”
Illario’s gaze slid to her.
“So you can see me. I was worried you’d gone blind.”
“Delicate thing...” she snapped her book shut and rested it on the arm of her chair. “It’s just so rare for you to make an appearance when the sun is out.”
He squinted at the window again, a flash of lightning reflecting in his irises. “I thought I’d make an exception.”
“Well, to what do I owe the honor?”
Without looking at her, he fished a small, familiar leather-bound book from his pocket and carelessly tossed it in her direction.
“I was hoping you could tell me more about this.”
Constance seized the journal as it landed in her lap, both hands curling around the rough cover. “You’re returning my mother’s diary?”
“Teach me something first.”
“About blood magic? Why?”
His mouth twitched. “We’re getting to know one another, aren’t we?”
“It’s dangerous, Illario. And the more I fuss with it, the less I can tap into the Fade for other magics.”
“Then don’t perform it, de Riva. Teach it.”
His smile had a hungry, sinister gleam to it, and Constance hesitated for a long moment before finally relenting. With a sigh, she crossed the room to Viago’s desk and lit a half-burned taper candle there.
“What is it that you want to know?” She asked, spreading the book flat and smoothing the pages out.
Illario joined her, peering over her shoulder and flipping several passages forward, clearly looking for something specific. His fingertip skimmed the scrawl until it settled on a small diagram.
“What’s this?” he tapped twice on the sketch.
“A guide for control. Vessels for storing blood, enchantments…” Constance skimmed the notes in the margins, and her breath caught in her throat. Rearing back, she shook her head and slammed the book shut.
“No.”
“Show me.” Illario leaned in closer, an edge to his voice.
“I have no interest in making puppets out of the living.” She clutched the book tightly in one hand and slid it behind her back. Illario’s gaze followed, his eyes darkening.
“Because you’re a good little witch, right?” He sneered, rising to his full height.
The casino guard’s lifeless body flashed in Constance’s mind, his gaping mouth, pale skin…
“I was desperate at the Diamond. Magic should not be used to cause harm, and only one’s own blood or that freely given—“
With a swiftness that made her flinch, Illario produced a small dagger and slit its blade across his palm. As beads of red welled up, he spotted an empty ink bottle on the corner of Viago’s desk and drug it closer.
“Freely given,” he flicked the cork off and squeezed his fist until a line of crimson dribbled down into the glass, splattering over its edges. The color drained from Constance’s cheeks.
“Illario, what–”
“You and I have the same problem.” He said over the soft plink of blood filling the glass, “Why not be the solution for one another?”
“What does blood magic have to do with this?” Constance grasped for his arm in an attempt to stop him, but he pushed her away, his lips forming a line as he concentrated, the vial now half full.
“Collateral. Trust doesn’t come easily to either of us, and we are both in need of an ally.”
“Viago and Teia are my allies.”
“And if you had any faith in them, you’d have slept last night. You’ve been a wreck since Teia’s visit. Everyone in your life has let you down, or has yet to, and you know it.”
“And you wouldn’t?”
“Not if we ensured I could not.”
He withdrew his hand and used his thumb to cork the vessel. Using his uninjured hand, he slid the offering across the desk.
“My fate rests in your capable hands. I’m sure your little book outlines the process for preserving this?”
Constance rolled the vial across her palm, squinting at it in the dim light. Streaks of red caught on the glass, stretching and contorting in the empty space before pooling back together. Her gaze rose to meet his, mouth slightly agape.
“Why?”
Illario reached out to close her fist around his blood.
“Because I want—I need—to be able to trust just one person. We can keep this secret between us, a pact neither could break.”
“What about Lucanis?”
“My cousin and I have been pitted against one another for a lifetime. Perhaps he would not take my life, but he would never deny Caterina, even if it were in his best interest... or mine. Family ties mean nothing, de Riva. You and I don’t even have to like one another, but there’s an understanding between us. Recognition. You cannot deny it.”
She could not. As much as they’d gotten under each other’s skin, there was a pleasure in it. An intimacy to it, from the very beginning, that came naturally.
“You’re not a mage.” She warned, “My blood would be useless to you in return.”
“I only need your word.”
Constance looked down again. Power thrummed in her veins, a sudden urge to smash the glass in her fist, and heal her resulting wounds as quickly as they might appear.
“I could betray you,” she pointed out, “easily.”
His hands slid to the sides of her neck.
“Ah, but you would not.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve given you the thing you’ve been desperate for your entire life. Something you cannot afford to lose in your position…”
His thumbs grazed up the column of her throat, each running along the line of her jaw until he was cupping her face in both hands.
“I’ve given you one person who can’t afford to turn their back on you.”
Constance swallowed hard as her eyes met his. She searched for any sign of deception, manipulation… for only found earnestness. Maybe even desperation…
She lunged forward, pressing her lips against Illario’s in a bruising kiss. He let out a small sound of surprise before smiling against her mouth. Hoisting her onto Viago’s desk, he swept aside a mess of dossiers and notes, sending parchment fluttering to the ground. The lit candle beside them tipped over and snuffed out, spilling wax across the surface as he finally pulled away and looked her over.
“When I am First Talon, I promise to pardon you for all your sins,” he panted, pressing his forehead to hers, “even the ones only I know about.”
“A Talon gave an order, and I’m following orders.”
“But he’s not your Talon,” Constance stretched across the mattress, arms hanging over her head. “Do you always go beyond the call of duty like this?”
His eyes slid over her body as he shrugged on his shirt and worked the buttons up halfway.
“When it suits me.”
-What It Is to Burn, Chapter 9: Hunger
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Pairing: Illario Dellamorte x Fem Rook (Antivan Crow/Blood Mage)
Rating: Explicit.
Chapter Summary: Things at villa de Riva become unexpectedly... domestic.
Warnings/tags: (18+ only). SMUT! Please check AO3 for detailed chapter warnings and tags.
Word Count: 2.7k
notes: This fic begins prior to the events of the Veilguard, and lasts through their duration. New here? Start from the beginning (but only if you want to.)
Read below or on AO3!
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
The soft lilac of Treviso’s sky filtered through the curtains as Constance counted the scars on Illario’s back. He lay sprawled on his stomach, hugging a pillow to his chest underneath him as shadows chased the marks between his shoulder blades. How many others had seen him in this light? How many still breathed to speak of it? Testaments to his training, and perhaps a few near misses, jagged pink lines decorated nearly every inch of skin. Constance’s own training had been far from painless with Viago in charge, but nothing compared to the stories Teia had told her about the First Talon. It was the invisible, temporary pains Viago had inflicted the most—some days he’d poison her four to five times, refusing to give her the antivenin until she could name what he’d poisoned her with. From what she knew of Caterina, a Dellamorte might have considered it coddling.
“De Riva…” Illario groaned as he stirred, dragging his cheek across the pillow to leer at her with one eye open. His palm slithered over the sheets, and he grasped for her, hooking her around the middle and tugging her against his chest.
“Didn’t I take care of you an hour ago?” He murmured, fingertips drifting down the center of her stomach and between her thighs. She squirmed in his arms, his weary smile against her ear as he teased at her arousal.
His assessment wasn’t far off. Sleep had not come easily after a full day of unconsciousness, and each time she woke through the night, he would as well, his hand, mouth, or cock then finding a way between her legs. Illario seemed content in that pattern—fuck, sleep, fuck again—and admittedly, Constance had been, too.
His lips ghosted over her neck, impatient fingers now digging into her inner thigh.
“Yes,” she finally answered, “but you’ve served your purpose. Perhaps now I should feed you to my snake.”
“Worry less about the snake,” he muttered, one hand sliding over her belly. It growled as he pressed upon it, and Constance silently cursed her body for its betrayal.
“Are you fussing over me, Dellamorte?” She craned her neck to meet his gaze.
Illario scoffed and released her, rolling out of bed to search for his discarded clothes.
“Hardly,” he plucked his trousers from the rug and tugged them on. “I’ve barely seen you eat, and I believe part of my duty here is to keep you alive.”
“You never explicitly agreed to Viago’s terms, yet here you remain…”
“A Talon gave an order,” he said, tucking his belt through the loop in his waistband, “and I’m following orders.”
“But he’s not your Talon,” Constance stretched across the mattress, arms hanging over her head. “Do you always go beyond the call of duty like this?”
His eyes slid over her body as he shrugged on his shirt and worked the buttons up halfway.
“When it suits me.”
A smile tempted her lips as he leaned over her, bracing a hand on either side of her. Disappointingly, he was just as beautiful to look at upside down.
“So we are not mistaken, I would have found my way into your bed, regardless.” He added with a whisper, lowering himself until stray strands of his tied-back hair fell to frame her face.
“Your persistence could easily be mistaken for desperation, you know.” She blinked her long lashes, feigning boredom.
Illario brushed a thumb over her bottom lip, tugging it down to reveal her teeth.
“You say that as if you haven’t been eating out of the palm of my hand, de Riva.”
“Please,” Constance turned from his grasp with a scowl. “You’re some of my best charity work.”
“Oh? You make those sounds for all your lovers?” Illario smoothed calloused palms down the lengths of both her arms. “Your sob story last night seemed to imply otherwise.”
Constance’s lip curled with disgust, and she rolled out from under him.
“You have such a talent for ruining a nice moment.”
Illario chuckled and pushed off the bed, dipping his chin as he finished buttoning his shirt.
“Take a bath. I’ll go to the market and bring back something.”
Her glare followed him around the room as he laced on his boots and opened the door.
“What’s stopping me from leaving while you’re gone?” She asked as he turned the knob.
Illario paused, glancing at her over his shoulder with a lazy grin.
“I think I gave you several reasons throughout the night, de Riva.”
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
Constance blew on a forkful of cacio e pepe, her gaze fixed pointedly on her meal as footsteps fell in the hall outside the dining room. At the other end of the long oak table, she’d left a second plate before an empty chair, as if it might draw out her companion like a mouse to a trap.
“You made dinner,” Illario mused from the doorway. “Did you plan to call for me or just wait until mine went cold?”
Setting down her fork, Constance straightened, electing to speak directly to the flickering candles in the center of the table.
“You dumped a loaf of bread and jam on the counter and called it breakfast. Forgive me if I’m not feeling hospitable.”
Illario’s reflection was barely visible in the dark courtyard window as he approached. He bent down, the collar of his jacket brushing her shoulder, and pressed his lips to her ear. Constance closed her eyes and suppressed a shudder.
“And you dressed up for me, too.” He slowly extended a hand to steal her bottle of wine. With a smirk, Illario crossed the room and took his seat, pouring generously into his own empty goblet. Under the table, Constance smoothed the napkin in her lap and adjusted the skirt of her dress.
“Did you poison it?” He nodded at his plate.
“Try it and you’ll find out.”
A huff of amusement escaped his nostrils as he twisted pasta around the prongs of his fork.
“I didn’t know you cooked.” He took a bite, and Constance observed him keenly for any sign of approval. As expected, he was careful to mask his reaction and deny her the satisfaction. Still, he swallowed and took a second bite. It was enough for her.
“Well, I’m not going to live off bread and jam in what could be my final days.” She finally said, resuming her own meal. “I understand I’m under house arrest, but it doesn’t have to be completely miserable.”
“No one is going to kill you, de Riva,” Illario said irritably.
Constance dropped her fork onto her plate, letting the silver ring against the bone china.
“Is that your professional opinion as a Crow,” she folded her arms over her chest, “or a personal reassurance as my temporary jailer?”
Illario met her gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he chewed.
“Does it matter?”
“No,” Constance snatched her wine, spilling a few stray drops on the table runner as she brought it to her lips. “I value neither.”
Illario returned his attention to his dinner, tension gathering in his shoulders.
“You have nothing to worry about. Enjoy your time off.”
“You speak with such certainty.”
“Because I am certain.” His fork scraped against the plate as he moved his pasta around. “I have no reason to lie.”
“So I should put my trust in your optimism?”
The scraping stopped, and Illario carefully traded his cutlery for his wineglass.
“You should put your trust in my experience and certainty as a Dellamorte.” He said in a clipped tone, regarding her over the rim before taking a long sip.
“And what makes you so certain?”
“Caterina does not waste resources,” Illario set his goblet aside and leaned forward, hands clasped on the table before him. “And you, de Riva, are far too valuable to waste.”
Constance’s responding scoff echoed inside her glass as she finished her wine.
“I am of no value to her.”
“You were so worried when I guessed you were a mage. You think Caterina has not already figured it out? You are interesting to her. That is valuable.”
“I’m not even part of her House.”
Illario shrugged. “Crows flit between Houses all the time.”
“Not me.”
Illario leaned back, pulling the napkin from his lap and dabbing the corners of his mouth before tossing it onto his empty plate.
“My grandmother can be very persuasive.” He reached out to trace the rim of his goblet. “Or perhaps Viago is working out a trade as we speak, now that you’ve humiliated him.”
Constance stilled, and he grinned, fingertip still tracing idle circles. Pressing both palms flat against the table, she took a slow breath.
“Does it bother you that my brother has the capacity to forgive my oversight, Illario?” She tilted her head, “It must be hard having Caterina and Lucanis always waiting for your next misstep.”
Illario’s expression soured.
“No…” Constance now wore a smirk of her own, “you’ve never had the luxury of making a mistake. You do everything by the book, and yet you still can’t win their approval because they’ll only ever see you as a rake.”
Nostrils flaring, Illario finished his wine and set the goblet down with a barely audible thud. His facade of nonchalance was now replaced by a bitter, cold, glare.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“Don’t I?” Constance stood, strolling the length of the table, heels clicking on the marble as the hem of her gown grazed the floor. She slid behind Illario, and he tensed, but stared straight ahead at her empty chair.
“I make a lot of money figuring people out, Dellamorte,” she gripped his shoulders with her hands before sliding them down his chest. “You put on such a wicked face…”
Her nails clawed at his shirt, wrinkling the fabric over his stomach as she draped herself over his shoulder to whisper in his ear.
“…for someone who just wants their Nonna’s approval.”
Illario became dangerously still, and Constance circled his chair, stepping over his leg to straddle him. She settled comfortably into his lap, fingers dancing over his chin, up his jaw, tracing the curve of his ear with the tip of her nail.
“You push your luck, de Riva.” He said through his teeth, fists curling in his lap.
“But I’ve been so lucky with you, Illario,” she bent to kiss his neck, relishing the feeling of his cock straining against her cunt through his trousers. “Or is there more to it than luck?”
His jaw ticked, hands moving to her thighs, fingers sinking in. She shifted in his lap, flicking open the buttons of his shirt one by one, nails carelessly scraping against his skin as her fingers worked. Illario shuddered in response, and when she finally reached the bottom, he wrapped a hand around her throat.
“I don’t need your pity,” he snarled and pulled her in, squeezing just enough for control. There was something in his tone, not quite humiliation, but a desperation to not be perceived as any bit affected by her taunting. The kiss was bruising, a punishment for her insolence, but hungry and needy in equal measure.
“You’ll never have it.” she hissed, before biting down on his bottom lip.
“Good,” Illario bit hers back. “Then we understand each other.”
“We understand each other.” She echoed, breath ragged as the taste of blood now mingled with the wine she’d drank. Her tongue darted out in search of a cut, only to realize she’d been the one to draw it from him.
Illario’s grip tightened briefly, then eased, his thumb gliding over her fluttering pulse with something almost like reverence before he released her. His chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes widening as Constance slipped between his legs to the floor.
“De Riva,” his face slackened as she knelt before him, dress pooling around her like black ink. “What are you—”
His words stopped short as she unfastened his belt buckle, tugging at the waistband of his trousers. Illario lifted his hips, dragging a hand down his face.
“Mierda…”
She pulled his cock free, running her tongue up the underside before giving him several slow, torturous strokes with her hand. His grip on her hair tightened as she pressed her lips to its tip, teasing the seam with her tongue and batting her lashes as she stared up at him. She’d never much cared for the act, but there was a thrill and pleasure in the reactions it brought out of him.
Illario’s head tipped back, a sharp curse tearing free as she took him in fully and sucked. His hand slid up her neck, fingertips resting lightly against the back, and his thumb stroked the shell of her ear in silent inquiry rather than command. She hummed in acknowledgment, mouth watering as she took him deeper, gagging herself deliberately with the tip of his cock at the back of his throat.
“Fuck!"
Her eyes flicked up to meet his. Predictable, that he’d enjoy watching her debase herself like this, but it wasn’t so terrible to be watched by him, wasn’t so terrible to have his approval…
With a wet pop, Constance pulled her mouth away and pressed a kiss to his inner thigh. Illario groaned his protest, and his muscles tensed against her lips.
“We understand each other?” She purred, twisting her hand up and down his shaft, wet with her saliva.
His breath hitched, hand slipping down her neck.
“Yes,” he choked out, fingers splaying in her hair and tugging with gentle desperation.
Constance grinned against his thigh and took him in again. Illario let out a low, guttural moan and slumped in his chair as she worked him into her mouth with one hand. She smiled around him with each whimper that escaped him, knowing he loathed every one. Perhaps he’d experienced the same satisfaction going down on her, the power in holding someone else’s release hostage.
But Constance was far more considerate. And her own need drove her desire.
Eyes squeezed shut and jaw clenched, Illario spilled himself down her throat, gripping the seat of his chair until his knuckles turned white. Constance held him deep as he shuddered through his orgasm, her knees throbbing beneath her on the cold marble. Before, she’d resented swallowing, disgusted by the performance of it for someone whose throat she’d likely be slitting sooner or later. But Illario… she relished his small gasp of surprise, the final twitch of his cock before he tipped his head back in surrender. Gently, she pulled away and pursed her lips. Illario sank deeper into the chair, chest heaving, shirt splayed open to reveal skin damp with sweat. He was completely undone, trousers unbuttoned, legs spread, thighs trembling.
He was beautiful.
“I like you like this,” Constance pushed to her feet and braced herself against the table, watching him. Illario opened one eye, fixing her with a weary glare.
“Does it satisfy you,” he panted, “to feel like you’ve won?”
Uninterested in her answer, Illario adjusted himself back inside his trousers and fastened them. Constance stepped out from between him and the table, wandering to the door.
“Goodnight.” she called over her shoulder.
“Leaving so soon?” He cocked his head and rose from his seat to follow. “I thought we were just getting started.”
Constance grinned as he caught up to her, bracketing her between his arms against the wall. His hands slid down her until they found her waist.
“Should we find out together what else that cruel mouth is capable of?” He asked, lips inches from her own.
Constance grinned, stepping away and walking backward through the doorway and into the hall. Illario watched, amused, before she crooked one finger in invitation and fled through the den and up the stairs, dress swishing around her legs with every step.
His boots echoed through the halls in steady rhythm as he followed, and a strange sense of delight swelled within her.
“So much time to kill.” Illario smiled at her shaking breath, dipping his head to kiss the base of her throat. “Let us do it with little deaths.”
-What It Is to Burn, Chapter 8: Nightmare
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Pairing: Illario Dellamorte x Fem Rook (Antivan Crow/Blood Mage)
Rating: Explicit.
Chapter Summary: Surprisingly, accidental poisonings are also effective aphrodisiacs.
Warnings/tags: (18+ only). Smut!!! Please check AO3 for detailed chapter warnings and tags.
Word Count: 3.4k
notes: This fic begins prior to the events of the Veilguard, and lasts through their duration. New here? Start from the beginning (but only if you want to.)
Read below or on AO3!
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
Despite the unforgiving nature of Constance’s morning regimen, she’d never once wavered in her fifteen years of practice.
Until now.
Palms braced against the hand-cut marble, as she stared at a vial of viscous, amber liquid waiting beside her steaming coffee mug on the kitchen counter. Viago had her inoculating herself against adder venom since they were teenagers, but her stomach still protested with anticipatory nausea. Perhaps such precautions had lost their necessity. If the Crows planned to sentence her to death, why make herself immune to a quick one?
“Ah, she makes coffee…”
Illario swept into the room, shirtless, the trousers he’d borrowed loosely clinging to his hip bones. He drifted behind her, toying with the thin strap of her silk chemise as he passed.
“What else can you do?”
His voice was a sultry rumble as he released the silk fabric from between his fingertips. With a clumsy grab, Constance seized and readjusted it over her shoulder. Illario smirked, his attention drifting to the counter.
“Ah, I’m interrupting.”
With a disinterested grunt, he crossed the kitchen and pulled open the cabinet doors one by one. The muscles between his shoulder blades shifted as he extended his long torso to reach, searching until he found a row of meticulously arranged ceramic mugs on a top shelf.
“What’s with the standoff, working yourself up to it?”
“I’m considering retiring the habit.” Constance mumbled.
Illario turned to inspect the glass chamber of the coffeemaker, fiddling with the spigot. A stream of piping hot espresso sputtered into his mug, scalding him, and he flinched, shaking out his fingertips. He cursed, then narrowed his eyes at her as she stifled a laugh.
“Don’t you ever worry that viper of yours will slither free and come for a taste in the night?”
“Adders are relatively docile when adequately fed.”
“Madwoman,” he muttered into his cup as he took a long drink.
“Have you ever served your own coffee before, or do your grandmother’s servants usually do it for you?”
“Just drink your poison.” Illario snapped, shooing her with a flick of his hand.
With a sigh, Constance uncorked the vial before her and dropped its contents into her own cup. She threw it back quickly and winced, but not from the taste.
“Thanks for the encouragement.” She steeled herself against a wave of dizziness, setting down her mug. “Are you certain you don’t want me dead?”
Illario leaned over the kitchen island between them as he cradled his coffee in his hands.
“Not today.” He purred.
Constance scoffed and slid her palm over the countertop to steady herself as she crossed the room to a pair of double doors leading to a small, lush courtyard. The poison was working quicker than usual.
“And just out of curiosity…” A raven dunked itself in the fountain outside, then shook itself dry as it came up for air. “If I were your mark, how would you do it?”
Illario’s eyes danced with amusement. With slow, deliberate steps, he joined her and curled a lock of her hair around his index finger.
“I’d seduce you, of course.” He admired the strand in the sunlight before dropping it against her shoulder.
Constance lifted a brow. “Really?”
“Easily.” Another sip of coffee, followed by a shrug. “I’d just act like my cousin.”
“Lucanis?”
“Who else, mia cara? The others died a long time ago.”
“Right,” Constance rested her forehead against the wall, relishing the cool stone against her skin. “Why him?”
“Seems like your type.”
“My type?”
“Dark, broody. Heart of gold hidden just up his sleeve.” Illario tilted his head, watching with amusement. “Are you alright, de Riva? Feeling sick?”
“It’s almost passed,” she waved him off weakly. “About your cousin — you’re forgetting the part where he’s a mage killer, and I’m a mage.”
“I thought this was all hypothetical?” Illario drew closer and caught her cheek, one finger under her chin to tilt her gaze upwards. “If I really wanted to kill you, I’d stick to what I know works.”
Constance swallowed another wave of nausea, a familiar dread flooding her veins.
“And that is?”
“Get under your skin until you can’t stop thinking about me. Do you a couple of favors you never asked for to earn your trust,” He brushed the knuckles of one hand over her flushed cheeks, “but I’d give you a lovely evening before I cut your throat.”
Constance wrapped a hand around his wrist and returned it to his side. “Generous of you.”
“And you? How would you kill me?”
She lifted a brow and brought her fingertips to his bare chest, pressing just above his collarbone. Intrigued but cautious, Illario watched as her hands splayed wide, his gaze following the path she traced over his shoulders and down his biceps.
“I’d make you so desperate for my attention you'd have to act out to get it. Perhaps I’d play the damsel a time or two, let you eliminate a few of my enemies. Give you a glimpse of vulnerability so that you underestimate me. And then, once I have you thinking you’ve outsmarted me…”
Between them, she slowly drew a fingertip around the rim of the forgotten coffee in his left hand.
“I’d spike the morning coffee with a poison I’ve inoculated myself against for weeks.”
Illario’s throat bobbed as Constance dipped her index finger into his mug, popping it between her lips and sucking the espresso from it.
“That’s only if you were my mark, of course.” She added, biting a long nail between her teeth.
With a low growl, he finished his drink and abandoned it on the counter, the porcelain scraping the marble as it sailed across the surface. He caught Constance by the wrist and pulled hard enough that she had to catch herself with both hands braced against his chest.
“No more games. You know as much as I do where this ends.” He hissed, fingertips rough as they pressed through her nightgown. “Why put off the inevitable when the inevitable could be so fun?”
His hands roaming her lower back, an ache following the pass. The heat beneath her skin became unbearable, sweat beading on the nape of her neck, and his movements slowed before ceasing altogether.
“De Riva,” Illario’s demeanor shifted, brow furrowing as he looked her over, “you don’t look…”
Cazza.
The room spun, and Constance propelled herself backward. She stumbled from the kitchen, hands grappling for each passing surface as she fought to keep herself upright.
“What’s wrong with you?” Illario asked, following her through the den as she scrambled up the steps, pulling her weight forward using the railing. At the top, she fell to her knees and frantically crawled for her bedroom. She didn’t have time to explain this to him, didn’t have the energy…
“Of course…” Illario folded his arms as his boot steps echoed behind her in the hall. “All that blood loss took your immunity with it. I thought you were smart, de Riva. Don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming?”
Inside her room, Constance yanked open the dresser drawer, clawing aside clothes for her box of poisons and antivenins as he lounged in the doorway. Her vision blurred as she threw open the lid, squinting at the scrawled handwriting on each of the vials.
“Which one, I can’t…”
Illario bent forward, snatching a vial from her hand and appraising it in the light. She stared helplessly as he pressed it into her palm.
“Your intuition was correct. Go on, save yourself.”
With an ungrateful glare, Constance swallowed the contents of the vial quickly. The world gradually came back to her, and she scooted herself to the center of the room, resting her head against the bed while her legs sprawled before her on the rug. Illario’s smile vanished, his head tilting to the side as he assessed her with a sharp gaze.
“Sleep it off,” he finally said, turning for the door.
“You’re leaving?”
“I have errands to run. What better time than when I know you’re not going anywhere?”
“Fuck you.”
“Sweet dreams, de Riva.”
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
Constance came to with a soft burning sensation behind her eyes that radiated to the back of her head. Outside her window, there was a dull roar, chanting in a language she recognized but could not understand.
Qunlat.
Her eyelids fluttered open to the darkness of night, only the moon and street lamps outside illuminating the corners of her room. A long scraping sound caught her attention, and she whipped her head toward where Illario sat on her chaise, ankle crossed over his knee, a dagger and whetstone in his lap. He paused his work, lifting a brow.
“Good evening.”
An explosion outside pitched Constance forward in bed, and she instinctively threw off the covers. Regret flooded her as she glanced down at her wrinkled nightgown. In her compromised state that morning, she’d gotten herself to bed, but failed to change clothes.
“Scare tactics and posturing.” Illario gestured with his dagger to the window and nodded. “They’ve been doing this for hours now.”
She moved to the window, one hand resting on the pane. Dozens of Antaam marched below, drums reverberating off the buildings, torches and battle axes raised overhead as they chanted in unison. She glanced over her shoulder at Illario.
“Shouldn’t we do something?”
The sound of sharpened steel ceased, and his eyes flicked up to meet hers briefly before he returned his attention to his work.
“Let the Crows handle it.” The metallic scraping resumed, “doing something is how you got yourself in this mess.”
As Constance’s vision adjusted to the darkness, she noticed he now wore his usual dark samite shirt, half-buttoned to expose the upper expanse of his chest. Illario caught her gaze as it lingered, and his lips quirked to one side.
“You talk in your sleep,” he slid the whetstone along the edge of his dagger, “nightmares?”
“Maybe,” she wrapped her arms around herself and sat down in bed, “I don’t know.”
“Well,” Illario uncrossed his legs, abandoning his work on the chaise cushion. “Now that you’re awake, you can keep me company.”
He stood, cracking his neck and prowling to the window to glimpse the Qunari’s march over a distant bridge.
“This is because of me, isn’t it? They’re punishing the Crows—Treviso—because of what I did.”
“Yes.” Illario leaned against the sill, arms folded as he monitored the streets below. Chants faded into the distance, growing softer. “But this was always coming. Your impulsivity just made for a convenient catalyst.”
He pushed off the wall and circled the bed before flopping down on the opposite side.
“What are you doing?” Constance whirled around, lip curling.
“The Antaam are leaving,” he stretched out his long legs and settled against the pillows, “but I thought I’d keep you company.”
“I don’t need your company.”
“Don’t you?” He glanced over. “We both know you’ve been waiting for me to return to your bed.”
Constance avoided his gaze, the memory of his head between her legs sending a wave of warmth through the core of her.
“Let me stay. The guest bed is uncomfortable.” Illario reached for her, fingertips drifting down the length of her hair until they grazed her bare shoulder. “Besides, I thought you wanted to get to know me.”
She swatted his hand away. “What I want is your dirty boots and street clothes off my clean sheets.”
Illario chuckled, letting his hand fall to the mattress. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and kicked his boots off one at a time, letting them land with a thud on the hardwood floor.
“Better?”
He unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way, and Constance caught him by the wrist.
“That’s…” she withdrew, “sufficient.”
The hard lines of his abdomen now fully exposed, Illario’s eyes glinting in the dim light, as if fully aware of the effect it might have on her.
“Later, then.”
He rolled onto his side, facing her.
“Go on. Ask me anything. Now’s your chance.”
Constance sighed, doubtful, but curiosity got the best of her in the end.
“Fine. Where did you go today?”
“The Villa. To get my things. I can’t wear your spare scraps for whatever undetermined length of time Viago has me babysitting you.”
Unamused, Constance glared at him from the corner of her eye.
“Why have you been following me?”
“I’ve been following you?”
“You’re everywhere I go.”
“In my city. Perhaps you need reminding that it is you who is showing up where I’m already present. My family’s stables, our Operahouse…”
“Okay, fine.” Constance rolled onto her side, sliding down under the covers. She mirrored Illario on the mattress, nestling her head against her elbow. “Why did you save me?”
“Viago asked me to.”
“And Carmodi, at the Talon initiation? Did my brother ask you to kill him, too?”
“No. I did that because it suited me.”
“Neither of those answers is a real answer.”
“Then ask the questions you really want to ask, Constance. I won’t voluntarily divulge more.”
“I want truth. Something not so easy to admit.”
Illario considered the question, eyeing her like one would a difficult pull in a game of Vendetta. He finally sighed, running a hand through his hair and rolling onto his back.
“The Antaam occupation,” he began, “it hurts. It hurts me in a way I did not know I could hurt.”
Constance waited for him to continue as he stared upward, his eyes tracing the fringe hanging from the canopy.
“A part of me resents the Talons for not doing more. A part of me resents Caterina.” He said. “Though differences of opinion in leadership are the least of my objections when it comes to my grandmother.”
“Is that why you want to become First Talon so badly? To change things?”
“What else is there left to want? It’s the only thing I’ve had to work for, other than staying alive.”
“So you don’t really care. You just want to win.”
“That’s not what I said.” He turned his head, “If that were all, I’d not bother.”
“Then what else is there?”
Illario sat up in bed, resting his forearms on his knees.
“Lucanis doesn’t want this, not really. This life will kill him. Caterina’s contracts will kill him.”
Constance followed his movements, sitting up as well. She drew her knees to her chest, observing him.
“So what do you plan to do about it?”
“Whatever it takes, when the time comes.”
“Spoken like a First Talon.” She nudged his ribs with her elbow, and Illario blinked at her in surprise.
“I haven’t been following you.” He said suddenly, “But I am intrigued. I’ve met women like you, but… not like you.”
Constance snorted. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”
“Guarded, beautiful, and mysterious Antivan women are not difficult to come by. But you… you interest me more than any I’ve ever met.”
“You’re a shameless flirt.”
“I’m serious.” He insisted, “I like your caution, your curiosity. I like that my House name nor my cousin interest you. I like that you break the rules when it suits you. I even like your little hero streak.”
Suddenly feeling overexposed, Constance rose from the bed and paced to the window, bracing one palm against the pane as the small amber blaze of the Antaam’s retreat flickered in the distance. The mattress creaked as Illario abandoned it, crossing the room to join her.
“Still looking over your shoulder?” His fingertips combed through her hair, brushing against her arms as he dragged them through the ends. “What might it be like if someone actually had your back?”
She shuddered as he pressed his lips to her neck.
“I could stay, if you like,” he murmured. “Keep the nightmares away.”
“You don’t care about my nightmares.”
“You’re right,” Illario’s teeth grazed her skin, “I don’t.”
He took hold of her shoulders, spinning her around to face him. Constance’s back hit the wall as Illario’s palms braced either side of her head, holding her in place. He brushed his nose against her cheek, hovering just above her mouth, before skimming his lips across the curve of her jaw.
“So much time to kill.” He smiled at her shaking breath, dipping his head to kiss the base of her throat. “Let us do it with little deaths.”
One strap of her nightgown fell, and he pulled back, grinning as he pinched the other between his fingertips.
“Shall we pick up where we left off? Surely you’re tired of wearing this flimsy thing?”
He smoothed the pad of his thumb over the silk, and his eyes rose to meet hers, an intensity there that burned through the rest of her resolve. Constance cupped her hand over his and pushed it down her arm until her nightgown slipped down her body and into a crumpled heap at their feet. Illario watched it descend, then met her gaze again, grinning with approval.
He pulled at the remaining buttons of his shirt, shrugging it off and tossing it aside carelessly. With an eager growl, his fingers threaded through the back of her hair, closing the distance between them before he crushed his lips against hers.
“Please don’t change your mind,” he panted, metal clinking as he unfastened his belt with one hand. Constance shook her head, and his trousers were soon discarded atop her dress.
“Bed,” he broke the kiss, pulling her away from the wall, “Get on the fucking bed.”
Illario thrust her toward the mattress and crawled over her. Constance’s hands slid up his arms, nails digging deep into his shoulder blades as she anchored herself to him. He tensed, jaw clenched tight, and reached between their legs.
“I had planned on being nice, but since you want to play rough…”
Illario pushed himself inside her with a single thrust, relishing her gasp of surprise as she adjusted around him. He claimed the column of her exposed throat with his teeth and rolled his hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm, canines scraping delicately over her skin. Constance’s heartbeat fluttered, and her arms stretched overhead, hands dangling over the edge of the bed.
“You’re wound tight.” Illario hooked an arm beneath her knee, lifting her leg against his hip to drive himself deeper. “Has it been a while for you, Constance?”
“Don’t–” she choked, “-don’t talk.” She didn’t want to admit how long she’d secluded herself in Viago’s home in Salle, didn’t want to admit that just being touched in the right place would send her over the edge at any moment…
Illario chuckled, pulling back and adjusting his stance to get a better angle.
“As you wish.”
One palm sank into the sheets beside her head as he fucked her into the mattress with a punishing rhythm. The other crept between their bodies, tracing slow circles around her clit, and soon the space between her ribs and navel stretched tighter, tighter…
Illario grinned as she involuntarily tightened around him, leaning forward to nuzzle the side of her neck.
“Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
With a strangled cry, Constance climaxed far sooner than intended, hips arching off the bed into his. She stifled her whimpers against his collarbone, and Illario’s hips stuttered, his arm bending at the elbow as his strength faltered.
“Fuck,” he choked out. “De Riva, I—”
Constance took his jaw in one hand, pulling his face to hers.
“Shh,” she kissed him with tantalizing cruelty, running her tongue against his. “Quiet.”
Illario’s moan was lost against her lips as he spilled himself inside her. Constance’s hands slid to his sides, the tips of her nails delicately brushing over each ridge of his ribcage as he shuddered through his orgasm.
Illario nipped her bottom lip to end the kiss and rolled to the opposite side of the bed. One hand on his stomach, the other against the pillows, he stared at the ceiling in silence, the rise and fall of his chest marking the passing of time. Constance reached for the tangle of sheets at their feet and pulled them against her chest. Lying on her side, she squeezed her thighs together, desperate to forget about the warmth slowly seeping from between them. She studied him through half-lidded eyes, memorizing the sharp curve of his cheekbones, the slight crookedness of his nose, the scar at the corner of his brow. From his periphery, Illario finally noticed and scoffed.
“You really are starving to be touched, aren’t you, de Riva?”
With a grunt, he turned and reached across the mattress, snagging her by the middle and dragging her into him. His bare chest was warm against her back, and he traced idle circles over the sensitive spot between her hip and navel.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I’ll keep your secret.”
She squirmed in his grasp, turning to face him again, and Illario’s smile faltered, his throat bobbing faintly.
“It’s not just a physical loneliness you’ve grown accustomed to,” his hands loosened around her body, “is it?”
Constance averted her gaze.
“I had… company.”
Illario snorted. “Who? Viago? He makes even Lucanis seem soft.”
Constance scowled.
“Hard to keep friends around when the Crown is eager to cut your alliances. I used my body during contracts over the years, but… those jobs are never quite as… satisfying, are they?”
Viago dealt in poisons, other Crows in stealth. People like Constance and Illario—Teia, even—hid in plain sight. The weapons at their disposal were not exclusive to blades and poison. They had honeyed words, fluttering lashes, furtive glances… warm bodies.
Illario’s thumb ghosted over her cheek, and Constance lifted her eyes.
“No,” he admitted, expression unreadable, “not always.”
Constance dared to lay her head against his collarbone, and Illario stiffened, but soon his hand came to stroke her hair, working out the knots that had formed during their tryst with his fingertips. There was a comfort to his touch, even if his company had been more vexing than pleasant… until now.
As she drifted off to sleep, Constance decided she’d deal with the consequences in the morning.
these AO3 bots are out here writing a little fic of their own in my comments with some truly creative insults like is this an enemies to lovers trope in the making? i need you, call me
“I will convince them to let this go,” Desperation crept through Viago's detachment, “But you must do as I say, just this once.”
“I hate you.” Constance said through her teeth, though she regretted the words as quickly as she uttered them.
Her brother lifted his eyes to meet hers one last time.
“That’s fine.”
-What It Is to Burn, Chapter 7: Rage.
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Pairing: Illario Dellamorte x Fem Rook (Antivan Crow/Blood Mage)
Rating: Explicit.
Chapter Summary: A spat between the de Riva siblings leaves Illario feeling uncharacteristically... empathetic?
Warnings/tags: (18+ only). Violence, shouting/sibling fighting. A mild evening, for Antiva. Please check AO3 for detailed chapter warnings and tags.
Word Count: 2.9k
notes: This fic begins prior to the events of the Veilguard, and lasts through their duration. New here? Start from the beginning (but only if you want to.)
Read below or on AO3!
─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───
Constance stirred, eyelids fluttering open to find her bedroom empty. With a frown, she lifted her head, squinting at the once-occupied chaise across the room, now empty. She hadn’t been fond of sleeping in a room while Illario was present, but was far less fond of him freely roaming the halls.
The covers tangled around her legs, and she kicked them off, careful not to make a sound as she crawled off the mattress. Running a hand through her hair, its ends snagged around her nails… a mess she’d deal with later.
Downstairs, the floorboards creaked, a familiar whisper carrying through the hall with an edge so rough it came like a shout.
“You wanted me to get her out? I got her out. If you had a preference for how I did the job, you should have said something.”
“And just what was I supposed to fucking say, Dellamorte?”
Viago was home.
Cazza.
Constance exchanged her robe for a pair of casual trousers from the dresser, stumbling into the hall as she pulled a chemise over her head. Illario and Viago’s voices began to echo as fragments of their argument escalated.
“Mierda, Vi. Fuck the rules! She’s your sister.”
“Is that the kind of attitude you will have if you become First Talon? Fuck the rules?”
Constance gripped the bannister, leaning out over the ledge to catch a glimpse of them. Both men remained oblivious to her eavesdropping, their faces inches apart.
“Hypotheticals are useless. Right now, Caterina is First Talon. The wind could blow just the wrong way, and she could overrule every vote to have your sister killed. You’d be wise to get her out of Antiva.”
“And make her a deserter?” A scoff, “That’s a real death sentence.”
The two glared at one another in silence before Illario rolled his sleeves, lip curling as he adjusted them around his elbows. Constance swore under her breath, clutching the bannister for balance as she ran down the steps.
No, no, idiot! Don’t provoke him, don’t provoke—
“Fucking coward.”
Constance was too late as Viago drew his dagger and drove Illario into the bookcase. Volumes tumbled down, knocking against their heads and shoulders as her brother held the blade to Illario’s throat, breath ragged and teeth bared, too caught up in his own rage to notice her approach. Illario, on the other hand, watched Constance from over her brother’s shoulder, tracking every footstep as she approached.
“Call me that again,” Viago dug his blade in deeper, “and only Lucanis will be left to succeed your grandmother.”
“Careful, Vi,” as she reached them, Constance picked up a novel splayed open at their feet and shelved it beside Illario’s head. “You’ll get blood on the books.”
Viago scowled and gave one last shove, stowing his blade and redirecting his ire toward Constance. Illario sagged against the shelf, checking his throat for injury and studying the faint streaks of blood on his fingertips with cool, appraising interest.
“If you’d just stayed here, like I instructed you to,” her brother snarled, “none of this would have happened!”
“You asked me to use blood magic. I assumed a hostage rescue would be a welcome contribution by comparison.”
“And I assumed you had a little more self-restraint! My mistake, given the body you left rotting in the cellar. You’re lucky I got to it before–”
“So you did find time to make it to the cells yourself?” Illario asked, rubbing his fingertips together with faint amusement until the last traces of crimson faded from his skin.
Viago’s responding glare was venomous enough to shave a year off the youngest Dellamorte’s life.
“You are my brother, Vi,” Constance stepped forward, growing tired of the pair nipping at one another’s throats like mabari pups. “You should have come yourself. You’re supposed to look out for me, you’ve always–”
“I have responsibilities as Fifth Talon. More important things than babysitting a grown woman. I sent Dellamorte as soon as I found out–”
“Don’t you dare reduce me to some sort of nuisance, as if it’s only blood and House name we share!” Constance’s cheeks burned with fury and humiliation. “I am the only real family you have left, Vi.”
From his place on the wall, Illario watched the exchange keenly, shifting forward slightly. Faint tension gathered in his shoulders, betraying his outward air of disinterest.
“Are you? I barely recognize the child throwing a tantrum before me right now.” Viago looked down with casual cruelty, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. “Perhaps your lack of discipline was a maternally inherited trait.”
Constance lunged, delivering a slap to Viago’s cheek so forceful it caught them both off guard. Her brother grimaced, and her hand flew to her mouth as quickly as it had struck. Eyes squeezed shut, he pressed his lips into a thin line, forcing a slow stream of air through his nostrils. A chill ran up her spine, and Constance instinctively stumbled backward, nearly losing her balance as Illario shoved himself between them. Her brow furrowed, lips parting slightly as her gaze met his.
Was he…?
Illario faltered, a brief flicker of shock in his expression mirroring her own. The hand reaching for a concealed dagger in his waistband dropped to his side, and he stepped to her left, distancing himself, but still keeping her brother squarely in his sight.
Well, that’s interesting.
Viago had not missed Illario’s near-intervention either. His eyes narrowed, and with an incredulous scoff, he straightened his jacket and returned his attention to Constance.
“Since, like a child, you can’t be trusted to follow orders or keep yourself from having emotional outbursts, it was decided by the other Talons that you will remain in this house until a decision is made about your sentencing.” he said, moving for the stairs, “Caterina volunteered her grandson, suggesting you at least seem tolerate his company.”
“What?” Illario blurted.
“Certainly not my first choice,” Viago replied, turning for the stairs. “I’ll be back in a few days.”
“You can’t be serious.” Constance gaped at her brother. “Him?”
“No one else wanted the job, given what you did to the prison guard.”
“Please” she begged, catching him by the sleeve. “Just let me go home to Salle.”
Viago paused, one hand on the railing.
“I wish I could, Constance.”
Defeated, she released her hold on him, wrapping her arms around herself.
“How long?” she called after him as he descended the stairs.
“Days, weeks—however long it takes to reach a compromise that pleases the other Talons.”
“Will that be enough time for you to find a way to live with yourself?” Constance’s eyes stung with tears. “When they vote to put me in the ground anyway?”
Viago paused on the landing, but did not dare to glance back.
“I will convince them to let this go,” Desperation crept through Viago's detachment, “But you must do as I say, just this once."
“I hate you.” Constance said through her teeth, though she regretted the words as quickly as she uttered them.
Viago lifted his eyes to meet hers one last time.
“That’s fine.”
The front door slammed shut, and with a sharp breath to suppress the sob that threatened to break from her throat, Constance stormed past Illario and up the stairs. His hand twitched at his side, as if he might reach for her, but he stayed in place, watching her go. Her bedroom door rattled in the frame as she flung it open, stalking to the vanity to snatch her hairbrush. With a huff, she flopped on the edge of the bed, roughly combing through the still damp, tangled mess of hair that fell down her back.
“I told you not to sleep with wet hair.”
Her hand stilled as Illario stepped in from the hall, visible behind her reflection in the mirror.
“Get out.”
“I would, but the sound of you brushing that rat’s nest is echoing down the hall.”
“No more taunts tonight,” she bit out, before adding a hoarse, “please.”
Illario raised his hands in surrender before walking the perimeter of the room, running a finger along every surface. If he couldn’t verbally get under her skin, he apparently needed to find other methods.
“Do the two of you fight like that often?”
“Once or twice a year, one of us will get on the other’s nerves.” Constance drug the comb down a bit more slowly this time. “But not like that. He’s never been… cruel.”
“Oh, Constance. If you believe that, you do not know cruelty.”
The comb caught on a knot, and she let out an angry growl, flinging it to the floor.
“Then what would you call it?”
“That?” Illario shrugged. “Annoyance. Concern. Affection, by Antivan standards.”
He crouched to retrieve the brush, turning it in his hands as he crossed the room. The mattress dipped under his weight as he joined Constance on the bed, and she stiffened.
“What are you doing?” She demanded, scrambling to her feet.
“Helping, so I’m not tempted to taunt,” Illario yanked her back down by the wrist, “Sit.”
Constance glared, but relented, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. With a surprisingly gentle touch, Illario gathered it in his hands, holding the strands taut in his palm and thumb, guiding the bristles of the brush through the edges of the knot, detangling with careful precision, working from the ends up.
“You’ve done this before.” She kept her eyes fixed ahead as Illario gathered her hair into thirds and began to deftly braid it between his fingers.
“I had sisters, once.”
“How many?”
“Two. Long ago.”
“Older or younger?”
“Does it matter?” Illario twisted the braid over her left shoulder and rose to retrieve a ribbon from the vanity, extending it to her.
“It paints a picture.” She accepted the gesture, fingertips grazing his as she took the ribbon and tied off her braid at the end.
“Older, by four years. Twins.” Illario reclined against the pillows, staring at the scalloped edges of the bed’s canopy, “they were killed alongside my parents when I was nine.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Save it.” He lazily held up one hand to cut her off. “We’re Crows, mia cara. We don’t apologize to orphans. It’s a rite of passage.”
Constance frowned, stretching out beside him.
“Do you miss them?”
“Terribly,” Illario watched her from the corner of his eye as she studied him. “Stop staring.”
“I can’t help it. It’s strange to see you like this.”
Illario exhaled, rolling to face her.
“Like what?” He asked impatiently.
“Vulnerable.”
“That was not vulnerable. Not compared to the little display you had out there—“
“You said you’d lay off.”
“Of taunting you. Not being honest. There’s a difference. One requires creativity. The other is stating the obvious.”
He rolled off the mattress and to his feet, plucking one of her mother’s journals from the nightstand. Standing over the bed, he flipped through the pages, and Constance dove across the sheets, attempting to wrestle it away. Illario grinned and stepped back, holding it just out of reach over her head.
“Ah, ah, I’ll need something as collateral to ensure you don’t sneak away in the night.”
Constance sank back on to her knees and sighed.
“I have no plans to leave, you can trust me.
Illario let out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head.
“No, de Riva, I can’t.”
“Where would I go?” She cried, “I would rather be a prisoner in my own home than return to a life of looking over my shoulder. The Crows are far worse enemies than the Crown.”
Illario tilted his head to the side, considering her words.
“Even if you’re imprisoned with me?”
“I’ve had worse guards.”
He smiled at that, examining the journal’s cover. For half a second, Constance truly believed he might release it back to her.
“I believe you,” he snapped the book shut in one hand, “but I’m still taking this. It’s been a while since I’ve had time to read.”
Constance scowled as he sauntered for the door, extinguishing the candle on her dresser with a dramatic huff.
“See you in the morning, Connie,” he winked, visibly relishing her silent fury as he shut the door behind him, leaving her in the darkness.
"I don't want it, Illario," Lucanis insisted.
"But you wouldn't refuse."
"It's impossible to refuse Caterina," Lucanis admitted reluctantly. "Only prolong her, until she sees reason."
- The Wigmaker Job by Courtney Woods (Tevinter Nights, 2020)
PSA: AO3 Bots Are Getting Worse (And Here's What You Need To Know)
Alright so if you're active on AO3, you've probably heard about the bot problem. It's been going on for years but it's gotten way worse lately, so here's a breakdown of what's happening and how to protect yourself.
What Are AO3 Bots?
Basically spam accounts that leave comments on fics. They're automated and they've been plaguing the site since like 2021, but they keep getting more sophisticated.
Types of Bots You Might See:
Praise Bots - These leave super generic compliments that could apply to literally any fic. Stuff like "This is pure genius, I'm in awe of your world-building" or "This deserves all recognition." The dead giveaway is when someone praises your "heartwarming" fic when everyone literally died and the earth shattered around them lmao.
Hateful/Cruel Bots - These are the really fucked up ones. They scrape REAL AO3 usernames and attach them to horrible, cruel comments. So innocent people get their names attached to hateful shit they never said. If you see a mean comment, check if the username is clickable - if it's not linked to an actual profile, it's a bot.
Kudos Bots - Some authors have woken up to like 30-60 fake kudos dumped on their fics all at once, with no corresponding increase in hit counts. This completely destroys the metric system especially in smaller fandoms.
AI Accusation Bots - These accuse authors of using ChatGPT or other AI tools, sometimes on fics that are literally older than the AI programs they're being accused of using. Some link to "AI detection tools" which are likely just trying to get you to feed more fics into AI training databases.
Misinformation Bots - A newer type that showed up in May 2025 claiming AO3 was removing works to "conserve server space" and telling authors to delete their own work or risk being banned. Complete bullshit - AO3 has never done this and never will.
Mary Sue Bots - Accuse your OCs of being Mary Sues, even when your fic only has canon characters and no self-inserts at all.
Art Commission Scam Bots - Leave praise then offer to make comic/art commissions of your fic. They get you off-site to Discord or Instagram, take your payment, then either send AI-generated garbage or ghost you completely.
How Do They Work?
The bots comment as unregistered guests and scrape real AO3 usernames to attach to their comments. The username shows up but isn't clickable and has no actual profile associated with it (unless you search for that name directly, which makes it look legit at first).
The newer ones are getting smarter too - they scrape your fic's tags and use them to make the generic praise seem more personalized. So if you tagged "angst" they'll specifically mention emotions and tension.
How To Spot Them:
Username isn't clickable/has no profile
Generic praise that could apply to any fic
Comments that make zero sense for what actually happened in your story
Multiple comments hitting your fics really fast (like 7 comments timestamped over 9 hours)
Sudden spike in kudos with no matching increase in hits
Anyone trying to get you off-site for commissions or services
The Emotional Impact:
This shit genuinely hurts authors. Some don't realize they're bots at first and think the hate comments or AI accusations are real criticism of their writing. There's also concerns from neurodivergent and ESL authors who worry their real comments will be mistaken for bots because their writing style might seem stilted.
And if your username gets stolen? You might have to track down authors and explain that hateful comment wasn't actually you.
What You Can Do:
As an author:
Delete bot comments as soon as you spot them
If it gets bad, lock your comments to registered users only (Settings → Privacy → "Only show your work to registered users")
Report the comments if you can
As a reader/commenter:
Don't panic if your username got stolen - reach out to the author and explain it wasn't you
Keep leaving real comments! Authors need to know there are real people who love their work
Maybe make your comments a bit more specific/personal so authors know you're real
Everyone:
Spread awareness so people know what to look for
Don't feed fics into "AI detection tools" that bots link to
Why Are They Doing This?
Honestly? Probably to keep AI brands in the "fandom news" cycle and create controversy. Some are straight-up scams. Either way, they suck.
Stay safe out there and keep supporting your favorite authors with real comments. We need that genuine engagement now more than ever. 💜
Tagging all my mutuals @ruinationz and @turbotasticnumberone and @cartoon-cat7241 and @cru5h-cascades and @seleyaaaa and @mono-squamblo and @strayfelinez and @strangelilangel and @yukihirop and @rivertheemoo and @meatmedallion and @drownedsilverforever and @senpaipaws and @cartoonlover999 and @byronicmoron and @resolutelymadvermin and @wanka-wanky and @looksmokin and @justwatchedsometv and @oakwoodvida and @human-n0-l0ng3r and @glooberousgoon and @goddess-of-lov3 and @lucifersdog-luci and @casethecreep and @aoihibiki247 and and @klyju and @fleshistic and @golshi-sweetheart and @femmesagemoon222 and @4ggravatez and @resonanthideoutruin and @saddmyths and @homestuckyaoi413 and @blueloky and @divine-vxnity and @ace-productions7 and @fiberopticemoweeb666 and @cryptedlullaby and @3veryth1ngstays and @blossomletters and @alpheiaa and @juniizhq and @sapphicavocado and @bloodybigirl and @yanderehiro and @dnplicoricenutttt and @russkiy-american-dreams and @2catnip4me and @miracle-winkel and @mickyx-x and @biblicallyunhingedtheo and @the-only-good-ai and @prettirei and @unhinged-pink-espresso and @patchofglass
Reblogging because the spam hate comments on my newest fic are so heinous that now I dread the comment email notifications instead of feeling even the smallest amount of joy from them.
