cafe-pietra

[cafe-pietra]

summary: viago finds out something terrible has happened to sol de riva. lucanis has a horrible day in a horrible week. emmrich and teia are once again somehow the normal ones by comparison. viago/teia and strongly implied non-binary crow rook/lucanis. mentions of crow-typical upbringing. i cannot be held responsible for viago’s inner narration being mean. 2.5kish words

*

The news lands like a bad joke.

One of the Diamond’s private booths has been converted piecemeal into something like a study. Viago had needed to work, and a table was a table, so he defiles Teia’s temple to indulgence with paperwork. Maps and notes are pinned to the ebony panelling on the walls. Among his stacks of notes and contract dossiers, Viago sits on luxurious black velvet as he waits, expectantly, for the punchline.

Lucanis Dellamorte just stares at the ash stains on the table, the low lighting putting the Void itself in his hollow dark eyes. Next to him, the necromancer, Volkarin, has the nerve to look sympathetic.

‘What exactly do you mean,’ says Teia, beside him, ‘by trapped?’

‘We gather that Solas planned this from the beginning,’ says Volkarin. He is quick to abandon fact for theory. ‘He exchanged places with Rook. Capitalising on the weakness of the Veil after Ghilan’nain’s demise, and perhaps even more so, the emotional duress that Rook—’ He catches sight of Viago’s expression, and whatever he sees there brings that sentence to a merciful death. ‘Suffice it to say that Solas walks free, and in his place, Rook has been imprisoned in the Fade.’

Lucanis says, ‘They’re gone.’

‘So why,’ asks Viago, ‘are you here?’

The question startles Lucanis, enough so that he looks him in the face for the first time since he stepped out of the eluvian today. Volkarin looks politely baffled. Viago wants to pour acid over something and watch it bubble into nothingness.

‘You have lost Rook,’ he says, and the words are a poison that threatens to close his throat. He forces past, makes no allowance for the weakness. ‘And now you are at my door. You have your pack of experts. Your contacts. Your gateways across the north. Surely there is nothing more that the Crows can give you. Go and get them back.’

Lucanis covers his face with his hands.

Viago does not know what to make of the Demon he sees before him. In the months since his rescue from the Ossuary, he had looked every bit the part of a man returning, piece by piece, from death into life. Viago had marked his improvement as he would mark the progress of any antidote. Each time Sol’s people visited Treviso, they had returned Lucanis a little stronger. More wholeness to his body, more colour to his skin. The shadows under his eyes had never vanished but they had softened, and Viago had seen him smile more easily at Teia’s teasing or Sol’s jokes than he had thought the heir to House Dellamorte would ever be capable.

Today it was all undone. After nearly a week of silence from the Crossroads, no way to know what at Tearstone had gone awry, Lucanis had come through the eluvian as unkempt and ragged as the near-corpse that Sol had first pulled from the sea.

Viago’s first thought had been that the man was ill, even blighted. Then he had asked for a quiet word in a private room in the same broken tone that others have asked Viago for a final poisoned cup. As he explained what had happened on the island, words had often failed him, sentences withering into choked silence, leaving Volkarin to conclude them. He flinched and startled at nothing as Volkarin spoke, turning to face interruptions only he could hear. Now he hides his face.

Volkarin casts him a worried look and once again attempts to intervene. ‘Please understand, we are pursuing every avenue. I am not without hope.’

Viago had considered the necromancer a tolerable acquaintance, with indisputable knowledge and the ability to hold a worthwhile conversation on Blessed Age sculpture. The standards Viago has come to expect from friends of Sol’s are not high; Volkarin exceeds them all. Still: his intrusion in this room now is as unbearable as an intrusion under the skin. He is an interloper here among their business. He cannot understand what is at stake, or he would not be sat there on Teia’s velvet in his ridiculous coat, posture perfect and prim.

Teia puts a hand on Viago’s arm, probably because his lack of answer is uncivil. He can’t decide whether reproach or sympathy would be worse to see in her eyes, so he doesn’t look at her.

To Volkarin, she replies pleasantly, ‘That’s good to hear.’

‘Incidentally,’ says Volkarin, encouraged, ‘may I ask after Rook’s surviving blood relations?’

Viago nearly chokes on more disbelief than fury. As soon as he can get out the words, he snaps, ‘Already planning the funeral, Watcher?’ His tone is not under his own control, but Teia’s fingers tightening on his arm give him an idea what he sounds like.

‘Oh!’ says Volkarin, surprised. ‘Oh, no, dear me. It could not be further from my thoughts, I assure you. I was considering… avenues.’

He glances sidelong at Lucanis. Lucanis does not look up.

‘My colleagues and I,’ he continues, ‘have been pursuing what it would take to locate Rook within the Fade. It seems the natural first step. And if you’ll forgive the notion, it may be a matter of, ah, blood. Blood matching theirs would be ideal, truly. If anything could speed our progress…’

Teia leans forward into Viago’s field of vision. Her face is perfectly calm, taking as well as ever to the role of mediator, but forcing him to wonder what she’s thinking. She and Sol are friendly, but not close. Teia arrived in his life just as they were beginning to spiral out of it. ‘Please, speak freely,’ she says to Volkarin. ‘You’ll find the Crows very open-minded.’

The line of Lucanis’ shoulders tenses like he disagrees, but at least he stops hiding, if only to turn and speak to Volkarin. ‘Rook was not born into the Crows as I was,’ he says. ‘Their family exchanged them for safe passage into Antiva. Refugees, from the Fifth Blight. They will be long out of reach.’

The words are a cold sting of unwelcome surprise. Sol has trusted this man even with that.

‘Ah,’ says Volkarin, sounding disappointed and a little saddened, as though he knows what family is to Sol, or what ranks first among the hardships they have faced. ‘Well. No matter, merely a thought. There are other approaches.’

‘You have tried them,’ says Lucanis. ‘Tried them, and failed.’

It sounds very final.

For the first time, Volkarin’s professional veneer slips, and he is the one to look tired. How many attempts has he made? How desperate did they become before turning to Treviso? ‘My dear man,’ he says. ‘Please don’t give up hope. There is so much we don’t know.’

‘Which is why we are failing. Why we cannot get them back. Isn’t it?’

Volkarin has no answer. His mouth thins into a grim line.

Lucanis drags his fingers through his hair, the style more of a mess than ever. His hand trembles like an addict’s. It’s impossible to tell what state his demon is in. Sol’s quiet updates had petered into silence, which Viago had taken to mean the thing was dormant. Is it what’s dragging him into this stubborn despair?

‘Rook is—’ Lucanis permits himself to choke on the words where Viago had not. ‘Rook is gone. Rook has been gone for days. And all the while, everything they have fought for, everything we lost them and Harding and Bellara for… We have sat and watched as it slipped between our fingers. Solas is free. The Venatori triumph. Elgar’nan has taken the heart of the Imperium while we hide and pretend there is hope. That is why I am here.’

‘You want us to fight,’ surmises Teia.

Lucanis spreads his empty hands, gesturing helplessness. ‘I have no magic. I cannot waste time playing at rituals and guesswork; I cannot even try. I only have the Crows. The least I can do—all that I can do—’

Save the world, even if Sol is no longer in it. Give them up for dead, and finish their work.

‘House de Riva refuses,’ says Viago.

Lucanis stares at him.

Teia’s fingers tighten once again on his arm. He doesn’t have to look at her to know that this time, it is a wordless warning. This is the First Talon, she reminds him. You are speaking to the First Talon’s face.

Viago cannot bring himself to care. He ought to think this through, to weigh the pros and cons, but in his head there is only one cold answer. ‘Your contract,’ he says, ‘is with Sol. Your business is with Sol. If you want my knives in Minrathous, you will find Sol and bring them here to tell me so. Until then, whistle for another dog. Our house is not at your beck and call.’

Lucanis shakes his head like he cannot believe it. Viago has feared and respected the man by turns. Recently he has even had occasion to like him. Now he would pity him if he were not so disgusted.

Viago is not being sentimental. He does not work from wishes. When he slips poison into a drink, he doesn’t hope it will stop a heart; he knows it will. Evidence and experiment has already proved the unassailable truth. He does not hope that wherever Sol is, they are alive, and fighting to win. He knows it. He has been the one to send them into impossible odds, time and time again. They always come back with laughter still in their throat. They always think of something.

If Lucanis lacks faith, he does not know Sol at all, and he certainly does not deserve them.

The man turns to Teia next, with nothing more than pleading eyes. That is his trouble, Viago thinks. Lucanis is not his grandmother; he is not even his cousin. He does not terrify or flatter or cajole. He is First Talon, and he still looks to them for help, as if they are his friends.

Admittedly, it is an approach that may work on Teia. Even her immaculate mask has fallen away; the slightest of furrows has formed between her brows, and her nails tap, distracted and discordant, on the table. She’s fond of Lucanis. Fonder still of Caterina, the spectre looming behind him. To dismiss Lucanis at his first command will be costly in every imaginable way. He would not ask her to do it.

‘Ay,’ she mutters. ‘What a mess.’

‘Teia, please,’ says Lucanis.

She grimaces. ‘House Cantori,’ she says, both sorry and unflinching, ‘stands with House de Riva, in this matter.’

The conversation is over very quickly after that.

The First Talon says little more. He recoils into himself like a wounded thing into its den, dead-eyed and quiet. Volkarin fills the silence. They are planning another attempt later today, he says. They are consulting Dalish allies for whom crossing the Veil is a regular professional hazard. They are reaching out to Kal-Sharok about pure lyrium. He is not without hope.

Viago waits until Lucanis is gone—a shadow crossing the rooftops, headed to the Dellamortes’ lair—and stops Volkarin before he can go for the eluvian. The necromancer looks at him, curious, politely bemused.

This is a terrible idea. ‘Rook was exposed to countless toxins, for immunisation,’ he says. ‘All through their training. I cannot get you their family, but I can get you blood that runs with all the same poison. Exactly the same. Would that be useful?’

Volkarin tilts his head thoughtfully, as if to look at the idea at a better angle. Viago is almost certain he is not just humouring him. ‘A fascinating proposition,’ he says. ‘It is rather pushing the bounds of the theory, but on occasion, the Fade quite takes to such bending of the rules… How many Crows would have been treated with precisely the same combination?’

Treated is a kind word. There is no place in it for coaxing Sol, a child then, to drink even when they were sobbing. There is no place in it for the long nights when he thought they might die before dawn. What Viago did to them was not medicine. It was necessary. Before he was Talon, he was a threat to a Talon, liable at any moment to be struck down. Sol had thrown their lot in with him from the start, and he had safeguarded them both by all the methods he knew.

He smiles, humourless, and admits, ‘Only one.’

‘Only—? Ah.’ It passes over Volkarin’s face clearly: the realisation, then the understanding, then the concern. ‘It shouldn’t be a life-threatening exchange, merely to locate them. It would, however, be arduous.’

‘We Crows tend towards arduous pursuits.’

Volkarin shakes his head, though it’s thoughtful, not a refusal. ‘I would commend you for it,’ he says. ‘I would ask you to come with us to the Lighthouse, to begin as soon as possible.’ His mouth twists with rueful humour. ‘And I would request that you explain the matter of my spilling your blood to our friend, upon their return.’

He agrees to those terms.

Whether it is optimism or pessimism, Viago decides that Sol’s mages at the Lighthouse will spend enough time mired in indecision about method for him to get some work done while he waits. He returns to the private booth to gather the most urgent papers. A few contract reports, too. They’re predictable—failures don’t come back to make reports—but he could stand to see some good news.

Teia’s still in the room. She’s sprawled inelegantly along the seating, one leg drawn up, a hand over her eyes as if to shade them from the dim, sultry casino lights. She lifts the hand a little to look at what he’s doing, then sits up, brows raised, and says, ‘Going somewhere?’

He explains about the blood.

When he’s finished, she reaches for his splayed collar and pulls him down to bring his lips to hers. He has to bend nearly double. After the kiss ends, she does not let him go. She presses her forehead to his and they breathe together.

‘I wish I could at least go with you, Vi,’ she says, sounding miserable.

A year ago, faced with such earnestness from her, he would not have had the heart to believe it. Five years ago, he would have been too busy flushing and stammering just to have her beneath him like this. Her tight-fitting combat leathers would have driven him to distraction. Now they only fail to hide how thin she’s become, and remind him how long it’s been since her last chance to drop the armour. He still remembers the delight on her face when she showed off new dresses, a transformation every day, each more unbelievable than the last. Will that come back, when these days are over? He wants to see her wear colours again.

Uselessly, he says, ‘Someone has to hold the fort.’

‘I know,’ she grumbles. With a sigh, she lets him go.

He stands straight, feeling bereft.

‘Gods in Minrathous,’ she mutters. The idea of the gods never sits easy with Teia. She says she has settled it in her mind, and then picks at it, like a scab. ‘Well, it would have been a sight to see.’

‘We’ll see it,’ he tells her. ‘Keep both our houses ready to move.’

Teia smiles. ‘Of course. We’ll go to war once our Sol is safe and sound, and you’ve finished shouting at them for all this trouble.’

Viago smiles back, just a little. He’s sure.

He has to be.

[cafe-pietra]

cw: oral sex on fem, overstimulation, edging, mentions of makeup running, mentions of penetration, mentions of fingering, Fenrir likes making you needy, Fenrir is controlling

Fenrir and eating you out with his nose buried up against your sensitive clit, the tang of you enough to make his eyes water and dick pulse in his tight, operator gear. Crumbling with the feel his tongue encircling- teasing, slobbering so well over your precious little hole: your makeup drizzled down your face.

Mascara leaving streaks on your puffy cheeks, lipstick shamelessly smeared all over your chin from the previous make out session doing nothing but fuel his lust for you. He liked you messy. He thrived seeing you that way with your eager movements- he found it adorable that a cute thing that you could become vulnerable and completely at his mercy, in such little time.

Come on now, it would be rude of him not to take advantage of you when you're like this. Downright disrespectful to just accompany you with the pleasure you craved, treating you like you were the doyenne of desire.

How disappointing it would be, tending to your every need and request-god no; he needed to bully you into breaking. Have you incoherent, spluttering and choking on your words in an outraged desperation because- could he not do anything? Could he not fuck you with his tongue- dark it inside and get a real taste of how he's making you feel, making you come? And if that was a no, did his fingers not work? His cock out of use?

You would rock against his lips, needing something to grind down on- some stabilisation because you were losing your fucking mind at his teasing. Fingers attempting suffrage in the withered vines of his dark, dampened hair- although it wasn't long before he pulled away and ripped your hands clean from him. Gorgeous, foggy blue eyes fluttering up with warning as he stares at you. Even when he was below you, you could feel the radiation of his dominance tower above, washing down your shoulders and turning your back to ice.

The way he was looking at you- Fuck!

"Easy does it-, lets not get carried away now.." His Swedish voice would mummer into the air before he locked and sucked back onto your clit cruelly. His movements getting faster, more pressured and calculated- fingers digging so hard into your thighs his handprints branded you.

Chin soaked with your arousal and you found yourself on the brink- eyes glued, taped, sewn shut as you nodded and whined. Begging from how close you were, just a little longer- he could do that right? He wasn't that mean, was he?

But as you found yourself pleading for more, the fire that ignited in your stomach was washed out by a tide of dread. A realisation that the 'more' you wanted was never going to come: you fell for it. Fenrir pulled away last minute, wiping the wetness from his stubbled chin with the back of his hand. Using the torture device between the cracks of his lips to clean up the sides of his mouth.

He couldn't deny the fact it was fucking hard to restrict himself, he had to do it to keep you on your toes, to have leverage over you but god- your taste and scent made him wild. Animalistic, dare he say.

But despite the need to be in control, nothing took away from the fact he was a busy man- way too busy to just allow you orgasm on him now. Work was calling him, they needed him out on the front line so he only had time to play.

He was ever so sorry about it, as fun as it was to tease you he would have never left you unsatisfied if he had the choice- but he didn't. He had to hid duty.

Walking away with empathetic eyes, contradictory to the disgusting smirk on his face while you stayed stiff in position. Aching, embarrassed and drenched, but still you'd do nothing about it on the off chance he's free later. When he has time to give you what you need. Maybe he would decide not to be a malevolent bastard and overstimulate you again. Maybe he would work you up slowly and let you finish.

Maybe.

[cafe-pietra]

If you don't think Sebastian "young noblewomen giggled and blushed at his notorious exploits" Vael and Thom "you know a lot about girls" Rainier aren't among the top 10 pussy eaters of Thedas, then we have nothing to talk about.

[cafe-pietra]

got really attached to my hc that lucanis’ non-antivan languages are not that good. like sure, he’s fluent in trade tongue, because caterina would expect nothing less, but it’s a bit rusty. they speak antivan at home and he doesn’t do that much talking on the job, and also in the last year people were only talking to him in very specific ways. so he’ll sometimes get something slightly wrong or not know a colloquial phrase or look beseechingly at illario/rook de riva/whoever else for a word he’s missing

[cafe-pietra]

Little spoon Lucanis. Reblog. You agree.

[cafe-pietra]

I get so annoyed with posts that ignore that Bellara is also out there feeding these people. Like Lucanis shows up and discovers that BELLARA is the only one who understands what food is. Stop lumping her in with Fried Fish and Burned Coffee Gallus and Culinary Abominations Harding. Show this woman some respect! She was holding the line.

[cafe-pietra]

Wanted to draw Illario in a ponytail and it escalated from there

[cafe-pietra]

If I'm not shipping Illario with Rook (of any faction), then I'm definitely shipping him with a non-crow who has a high enough social ranking to get mouthy with Caterina. That man needs someone who'll say "The more I hear you talk about Illario, the more I understand why he did what he did" without remorse.

[cafe-pietra]

(trying to flirt) can i be your problem

[cafe-pietra]

illario dellamorte doing the patrick bateman morning routine monologue send tweet

[cafe-pietra]

Please.

Don’t tell me you don’t see it.

[cafe-pietra]

something utterly ridiculous (affectionate) about Lucanis Dellamorte being attracted to people whose whole schtick is the think he refuses to do above anything else: plan.

First it was Viago “If I had Microsoft Excel I’d be unstoppable” de Riva. Then it’s Neve “I have cork board with strings on it for every conceivable situation” Gallus. Obviously Rook can be written in a lot of ways but I firmly see them as a planner to some extent. They are leading the main force against the gods ofc they are planning and giving orders. Rook is moving those carved figures around the map and making final battle preparations and Lucanis is probably sitting there hornier than should be legal. He just wants someone to point him in a direction and tell him what to do. Is that entirely healthy? Maybe not. But it is incredibly fuckable.

[cafe-pietra]

Now I'm thinking about Illario and Lucanis and how I think both of them in a relationship (a real relationship) would be terrified of losing their partner. But where Lucanis is "fleeting touches" and not allowing himself to do more than look at them and dream, I think Illario would be the opposite.

Illario worries Rook will either leave him or die too, obviously, that's what everyone else who's ever loved him has done. So he clings to them and takes up all their time and kisses them like he's trying to consume them, to absorb at least part of them into himself forever, to take as much of them as he can get before they're gone.

[cafe-pietra]

I know a lot of Lucanis lovers have their rooks calling him Luca as a nickname. (myself included)

But what about Illario? Does anyone else call him Lario or Rio as a nickname? Or anything else?

Also how do you think he’d react to someone calling him a nickname (like a genuine and kind one. not something derogatory) I think illario.exe would stop working internally even if externally he’d recover quickly. He’d be thinking about it for hours though. Maybe days.

[cafe-pietra]

Forever thinking about the difference in Caterina's relationship to her two grandsons vs her relationship to Teia

[cafe-pietra]

you're a thousand times mine.

and I am a thousand yours.

(updated version here)

[cafe-pietra]

Don't mind me just trying to figure out what this mf would look like with his hair out of the bun