Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lucanis was still damp from his bath, skin warm and carrying the faint scent of soap when she pushed him back onto the bed. His hair clung wet against his temples, a few dark strands curling down to brush his jaw. Rook straddled him, her own hair a little wild, softer and fuller than usual after brushing—red spilling over her shoulders like flame. Her mouth moved against his neck, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, leaving slow-burning bruises across his chest.

Her hand slid down, unhurried, following the cut of his ribs, the tight lines of his stomach, until her fingers brushed lower and cupped him. He groaned at the first press of her palm, hips lifting into her touch as though he’d been waiting for it all night.

It wasn’t the first time she’d driven him out of his mind this way. She’d had his cock in her mouth before—slow, wet, ruinous—and he’d sworn he could have died happy with her lips stretched around him, her tongue making him buck helplessly into her throat. Since then, every kiss, every press of her hand against him carried the echo of it, and tonight was no different. Her mouth marked him possessive, and her hand squeezed him, deliberate, thumb smearing across the slick head as he gasped into her hair.

“Rook,” he rasped, voice catching, low and desperate. He meant to warn her, to beg her, to say something about the heat building quick and sharp—but her teeth dragged over his nipple and whatever words he’d had dissolved into a groan.

She laughed against his chest, the sound muffled and dangerous, before her hand slid lower, cupping him more firmly, fingers tracing behind his balls and pressing lightly between them. He jolted, breath snapping out of him, that spot electric as ever under her touch. His thighs shifted open without thought, welcoming, betraying the hunger that had been simmering since the first time she’d touched him there.

Her hand lingered, teasing, testing how far he’d let her go tonight. She kissed her way back up his chest, lips softening into something gentler as she whispered against his throat, “My husband.” The words landed like a claim, and his cock twitched hard against her palm, heat flooding him at the possessive note in her voice.

Spite purred in the back of his skull, a low, approving thrum. Lucanis tightened his arms around her, pulling her flush against him, but he didn’t stop her hand. Couldn’t. Not when his body was already arching into every stroke, not when the thought of letting her have more made his heart thunder against his ribs.

Her mouth left his throat only long enough to wet her fingers, tongue dragging over them before she pulled them slick from her lips. Lucanis’ breath caught sharp in his chest at the sight—her amber eyes locked on his, hair spilling forward like fire, her hand shining with her spit. It was filthy and reverent all at once, and it set him alight.

She slid her fingers lower, past his cock, cupping his balls with a teasing squeeze before pressing back, slow, deliberate. He groaned, hips jerking up helplessly, thighs already parting wider beneath her. His chest heaved as he tried to hold still, but every nerve in his body thrummed, desperate for more.

The first press of her fingertip had him shuddering, muscles tighening under her hand, the stretch sharp and new even though he'd felt her there before. But this—her fingers slick, sliding deeper, curling just so—made his whole body arch. A sound tore from him, rough and unrelieved, his cock jerking against his stomach untouched.

"Mierda, Rook—" The words broke ragged, not quite a plea, not quite surrender. His hands fisted the sheets at his sides, knuckles white, because if he touched her now, he'd lose himself too fast. He wanted to let her ruin him.

Her mouth pressed hot to his chest again, sucking another bruise just above his heart as her fingers worked deeper, curling into that spot inside him. His back bowed, a guttural moan ripped from him, his control unraveling with every stroke.

She lifted her head, lips swollen from kissing, a wicked smile tugging at her mouth. "Look at you," she whispered, voice thick with want, teasing but tender. Her fingers thrust again, deliberate, and his hips snapped up to meet them, chasing the pressure like he couldn't help himself.

Lucanis dragged in a shaky breath, eyes glazed, lips parted. He had thought kneeling for her had been devotion. Thought fucking her into the mattress has been worship. But this—her hand inside him, her mouth marking him, the way she watched him fall apart under her—this was surrender, sharply and holy.

Her fingers slowed, curling one last time inside him before she eased back. Lucanis shuddered, chest heaving, thighs trembling, every cell in his body begging her not to stop. But then Rook reached sideways, over the tangle of sheets, and her hand came back with the small vial of oil they kept at the bedside.

She set it down between them with a soft clink, gold eyes searching his. There was no teasing now, no smug grin—just head and something quieter, sharper, like the moment before a storm. "Lucanis," she said, her voice low, almost steady. "I've never done this. Not really." Her thumb stroked over the lip of the bottle, restless before she added, "But I've wanted to. Wanted to with you."

He stared up at her, sweat dampening his temple, hair clinging to his cheek. His body was already open for her, cock flushed and heavy against his stomach, the ache in him written plain across his face. And yet, when she confessed it, something in his chest cracked wider than any physical hunger could reach.

"You think me so experienced," she continued, leaning down until her hair brushed his shoulder, her mouth grazing the shell of his ear. "But it's you, Lucanis. Who I've always wanted like this." Her lips pressed just under his jaw, and she tasted the salt there. "Let me?"

He swallowed hard, the sound raw in his throat. A thousand words clawed at him—fear, want, disbelief—but all that came out was a rough, breathless, "Yes." His hands rose, catching at her waist, holding her there as if she might vanish if he didn't anchor her. "Yes, Rook."

Spite stirred in the back of his skull, a low thrum of satisfaction, but he barely noticed. All he saw was her—hair wild and glowing in the low lamplight, face flushed, eyes fierce and tender all at once. All he felt was the pulse in his body, answering hers, the certainty that there was nothing she could ask of him he would ever deny.

Rook shifted off of him, and Lucanis' first sound was a groan of protest, low and half-wrecked. But then she turned, tugging open the drawer tucked beneath the tangle of her tunics and cloaks. He blinked through the haze of arousal, chest rising and falling hard, watching as she pushed fabric aside with care.

What she drew out made his stomach drop and his cock twitch in the same instant. Leather—straps he'd seen her working on over the weeks, her fingers nimble, her face unreadable. He'd never asked. He'd assumed it was just another one of her odd little projects, like when she fussed with arrows or polished the inlays on her staff. But now, seeing her hold it, seeing the gleam of shaped leather in her hands, realization punched through him.

He quite literally felt himself die inside—fall apart, hollowed out by want so sharp it almost hurt. His mouth went dry, pulse hammering, as she stood at the side of the bed to buckle the harness into place. The sight was devastating: her hair loose and wild from his hands, her lips still swollen from kissing him, the curve of her breasts, and then the glint of leather, her hands working straps over her hips, tugging each buckle snug with the same efficiency she used to strap on armor.

"Rook," he rasped, his voice nearly breaking. He didn't know if it was plea or prayer.

She looked over her shoulder at him, one brow arched, eyes gleaming with something between mischief and hunger. "You've seen me make it," she said, voice low, steady. "Did you really think it wasn't for this?"

Lucanis swallowed hard, throat tight. His cock ached just from the words, from the way she slid the last strap into place and tested the give with a pull of her hand. There was no derision in her tone—only desire, only the stark truth that she wanted this for him, with him.

He couldn't tear his eyes away. Every instinct in him, honed sharp by years of control, said he should turn his face, hide the flush spreading across his cheekbones. But he didn't. He let himself look, let himself feel the raw edge of want coil tighter inside him until he thought it might consume him whole.

Rook bent again to the drawer, rummaging through it with an easy sort of idleness, as though this moment wasn’t burning him alive. “You remember when I took the Eluvian to Orlais?” she asked, tone deceptively casual, though her hair tumbled forward to hide the curve of her mouth.

Lucanis’ breath hitched. Of course he remembered. It had been the first time they’d been apart since she’d moved into the villa as his wife. Days that had stretched like years, his nights restless and empty, sleep shallow, the ache of her absence gnawing at him in a way he hadn’t known he could feel. “I remember,” he said, voice low, rough with more than arousal.

She hummed softly, drawing something from beneath folded cloth. “I was supposed to look into a few artifacts. Old statues. Wards. All terribly boring.” She straightened, and his pulse tripped when he saw what she held. Leather. Dark, well-kept, the stitching fine, the length shaped and sure—larger than her fingers had ever reached, but not impossibly so.

“I got distracted,” she admitted, eyes glittering as she turned it in her hands, testing the weight, the polish of the surface. “And came back with this instead.”

Lucanis’ stomach dropped. His cock throbbed painfully against his belly, precome already slicking the head. He had seen weapons gleaming in candlelight before, had wielded a hundred blades, but never had he looked at something with such naked want. His hands twitched at his sides; he almost reached down to touch himself, to find relief, but stopped, fists clenching tight in the sheets. Watching her—watching her was its own delicious torture.

She set it on the bed between them, then took the straps she had already buckled on and slid the piece into place with deft, sure movements. He nearly groaned just from the sight—the leather harness hugging her hips, the way she adjusted it, testing the fit. A warrior’s precision in her gestures, but her eyes stayed on him the whole time, hungry, knowing what it was doing to him.

Only once it sat snug against her did she reach for the vial again. The scent of the oil rose sharp and sweet as she poured some into her palm, warming it before smoothing it over the length of the toy. Lucanis’ throat worked as he watched it glisten, her hand stroking deliberate, and every pass made his cock twitch harder.

She crawled back onto the bed, settling between his open thighs. Her fingers, still slick with oil, trailed over his skin—first his knees, then his thighs, slow circles that inched higher each time. He shuddered, his breath catching, hips twitching upward when she neared the base of his cock, then darted away again.

Waiting for her to close that distance was exquisite agony. His whole body was strung tight, every nerve raw, every muscle begging for more. His eyes flicked down to the harness fitted to her hips, the oiled leather gleaming under candlelight, and the sight alone nearly undid him.

Her slick fingers slid lower, circling him, coating him with the same careful, deliberate touch she’d used on herself. The oil was warm, her hand gentler than he’d expected, and when she pressed into him again, slower this time, the glide was easier, hotter, unbearable in its precision. Lucanis’ thighs trembled, his breath leaving him in a ragged sound that was half-groan, half-plea.

She kept her hand there, teasing, stretching him open a little more with each pass, her other hand splayed firm and steady across his thigh to keep him grounded. He wanted to thrust against her fingers, wanted to take more, faster, but he held still, teeth sinking into his bottom lip until he tasted blood. The anticipation was torture, and yet he savored every flicker of it, every shiver that rolled through him.

When she finally aligned herself, the press of leather firm against his entrance, he almost broke apart just from the promise of it. He looked up at her, eyes wide, chest heaving, and something raw clawed its way out of him, unbidden. “Eponine.”

Her real name. Rare on his lips, rarer still in the dark hush of their bed.

She stilled, amber eyes flashing with surprise, then softened into something molten. A smile curled slow across her mouth, sharp and tender all at once. “You never call me that,” she murmured, clicking her tongue as though he’d been caught misbehaving, though her voice trembled with want.

She eased forward, slow, steady, giving him time to take her in. The blunt head stretched him wider than her fingers ever had, and Lucanis’ breath hitched sharp in his chest, a strangled groan tearing from him as his hips shifted against the mattress.

She watched him closely, her hand still firm on his thigh, thumb stroking small, grounding circles as though she could soothe and torment him all at once. “Breathe,” she whispered, leaning over him, her hair brushing across his chest. “I’ve got you.”

He forced air back into his lungs, but it came ragged, broken around the edge of a moan. Maker, the pressure—so deep, so relentless—it lit his nerves like fire. His cock jerked untouched against his stomach, leaving a smear of wet across the ridges of muscle there. He thought he might lose his mind from the stretch alone, from the sheer intensity of being filled this way.

“Eponine,” he gasped again, the name torn from somewhere deep, a place he never let anyone touch. His eyes snapped open to find hers, and the sight of her above him—hair wild, lips parted, eyes burning with possession and awe—wrecked him further.

She smiled then, not cruel but triumphant, the smile of a woman who had wanted this as badly as he did. She sank in another inch, patient, deliberate, until he shuddered under her, his back bowing, his voice spilling curses and broken fragments of her name.

The oil made it smooth, each slow glide deeper, but it was her hand on his chest—fingers curling into the wiry hair there, nails biting down just enough—that anchored him. He grabbed at her wrist, not to stop her but to feel her, to keep himself from flying apart too soon.

When at last she bottomed out, seated flush against him, the both of them stilled. The weight, the fullness, the sight of her harness snug around her hips and her body pressed firm against his—it was too much and not enough all at once. Lucanis’ throat worked as he dragged in a shaky breath, eyes closing as his body trembled with the effort to hold still.

Rook shifted her hips, slow at first—just enough for him to feel the drag, the stretch, the promise of what was to come. Lucanis’ entire body jolted, a strangled moan ripped from his throat as his cock twitched hard against his stomach. He clenched the sheets at his sides, knuckles white, fighting the instinct to reach for himself, to ground some of the unbearable fire coursing through him.

She watched him, steady and unyielding, and then began to move in earnest—drawing back, pushing in, her rhythm smooth and deliberate. Each thrust pressed deeper, striking that spot inside him that made his back arch and his teeth sink into his bottom lip until he tasted copper. His breath came ragged, broken into groans that filled the candlelit room.

“You’re beautiful like this,” she whispered, leaning over him, her lips grazing his ear as she sank into him again. He almost begged her then, almost lost what little pride he clung to.

Her eyes flicked down, catching the ache written plain in his body—the way he strained, the way his hips chased her despite his effort to hold still. With a slow, wicked smile, she caught his wrist, guided his hand down. “Go on,” she murmured, voice a low taunt. “Touch yourself for me.”

Lucanis’ restraint shattered. His palm wrapped around himself with a groan so deep it shook through his chest. The slick head slid easy against his fist, his own rhythm syncing with hers as she drove into him. The dual sensation—her filling him, his hand stroking himself—was too much, too perfect.

He gasped her name, rough and raw, hips jerking helplessly as the pleasure spiraled. Every thrust pushed him closer, every glide of his fist sent sparks shooting up his spine. Spite purred thunderous in the back of his skull, pleased, urging him further, and for once Lucanis didn’t resist.

He let himself go, let himself feel everything—the stretch, the deep press of her inside him, the slick glide of his own hand stroking his cock. His hips rose and bucked with hers, chasing the rhythm she set, lost in it. Every thrust made his voice tear loose, groans spilling rough and broken, her name tangled in curses.

Rook’s hands framed his hips, steadying, guiding, the leather harness snug against her body as she drove into him again and again. Candlelight caught in her hair, turned it to a living flame, and he thought he could die of the sight alone. She leaned over him, sweat dripping onto his chest, her mouth finding his jaw, his cheek, his lips between thrusts. Every kiss was a claim, every movement hers, and he surrendered to all of it.

His fist tightened around himself, stroking faster now, slick and desperate. Each time she filled him, it drove his cock harder into his palm, the pleasure doubling until he was shaking apart. His thighs trembled, his back arched high off the sheets, muscles straining as though his body didn’t know which sensation to obey first.

“Eponine,” he gasped again, the name ripped raw from his throat, and her answering smile was savage and tender both.

She angled her hips, and the toy struck that spot inside him dead-on. His vision went white, the sound that tore from him loud and guttural, like it had been caged in him for years. His hand stuttered once, twice, and then he came hard, spilling hot over his stomach, across his fist, his body clenching and trembling violently around her.

She didn’t stop moving, not right away, drawing every shudder from him, every gasp of his voice until he sagged back into the sheets, sweat-slick and ruined. His hand fell limply to his side, the mess on his stomach gleaming in the flicker of the last candles.

Rook eased back, slow and careful, and the loss made Lucanis keen low in his throat, a broken sound he couldn’t smother. His body trembled once, twice, before sinking boneless into the sheets, every muscle wrung out and undone.

She shuffled the harness off, leather whispering as buckles loosened, and set it aside with quiet finality. Lucanis didn’t move, didn’t care about the cooling sweat on his skin or the mess streaked across his stomach. He was content to stay exactly as he was—wrecked, spent, undone—so long as she curled into him. So much for his bath earlier.

When she climbed back onto the bed, he turned into her instinctively, arms heavy but sure around her waist. She pressed her mouth to his neck, his chest, the sharp line of his jaw, the sweat-damp hair at his temple. Finally, her lips found his forehead, lingering there, her breath warm against him.

“We should bathe,” she murmured, voice hushed in the quiet of the room, though her tone carried both mischief and tenderness.

He huffed a laugh, too tired to argue, too full of her to resist. His arms tightened around her, pulling her close enough that their heartbeats thudded in tandem, and he let his eyes drift shut. If she wanted to drag him back to the bath, he would go. But if she let him lie here, with her weight pressed safe and warm against him, he could fall asleep and never want for more.