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“If we're going to do this, we need to do it right. Stripped naked. You won't have anywhere to hide, Crow.”
Lucanis doesn't doubt his own senses. Even halfway through a bottle of something closer to rotgut than Antivan red, he knows what he heard. Davrin thinks they should strip if they're going to do this, and strip completely naked at that.
What he doesn't know is how to respond. Davrin has that cocky grin Lucanis wants to wipe off his face, all white teeth and taunt.
“Mierda,” Lucanis sighs, and Davrin laughs at him.
“It's a Dalish wrestling tradition,” Davrin says. He's still smiling at Lucanis over the last dregs of wine in his mug.
“Smells like. Lies,” Spite points out helpfully. Lucanis sees the figure of Spite leaning against the back of Davrin’s chair, with a violet ghost of his own nose pressed too close to the sinewy side of Davrin’s neck.
“No,” he chides. Spite doesn't heed Lucanis – he wouldn't be Spite if he did – but he does take a half step away.
Davrin turns to peer in the direction of Lucanis’ gaze. He's sharp like that, ready to pick up on a cue from his comrades in arms. Lucanis hasn't seen enough of the Wardens fighting together as a team to guess at how they train, but he can surmise from the way Davrin moves on the battlefield that it's often in groups.
He can also surmise from the look on Davrin’s face that his feelings about demons haven't changed.
Lucanis sets his empty cup down on the table between them. “I can manage Spite. He won't be a problem,” he says. He knows he's said it before.
Wine and challenge spur Davrin more than Spite, though. “So you're in,” he confirms. He claps Lucanis firmly on the shoulder with a warm, firm hand.
His hands fall still on his belt. Davrin is already naked, his clothes tossed into a pile somewhere. Lucanis didn't follow the trajectory of that low-cut shirt too closely.
He doesn't know where he ought to look. It reminds him of the unfortunate time he walked into a Tevinter orgy more than the casual, sociable nudity of a Treviso hot spring. Lucanis likes the baths, even the ones outside Villa Dellamorte. Crows don't indulge in false modesty, and bodies are bodies. He’s seen many, and found none of them as compelling as other people do.
Now, his mouth is dry, and hot embarrassment rises from between his shoulder blades up his neck, fighting its way to his cheeks.
Lucanis knows what Davrin looks like naked. Wardens live in close quarters at Weisshaupt and in camp, and Davrin doesn't have a problem sharing a tent, or bathing from a bucket in front of everyone.
He’s young, strong and tall, with a monster hunter’s scars. Davrin has said the twin scars under his pectorals are from a different kind of battle, when he's had a few potent ales, but Lucanis didn't pry.
Davrin stretches into a forward lunge. Lucanis sees the tension in his thigh, and the way his muscles flex under his skin.
He needs to see the stalwart Warden tremble and fail.
Lucanis steels himself. He sheds his trousers and slings them over a chair, trying not to compare his wiry thighs to Davrin's thicker ones. Where Davrin has smooth brown skin, Lucanis is pale, and as hairy as most humans in Antiva. There's little meat on his bones, and Davrin has a barrel chest as solid as a shield wall.
They both know their own bodies, though, and superior size has only ever been an illusory advantage in Lucanis' work. He slips in like a knife, with no need for bulk. Lucanis hopes his limber flexibility will be enough to pierce the bulwark.
They circle each other warily. Lucanis makes the first move, darting close and shoving Davrin.
It doesn't move him much, but that wasn't the point. The slap of Lucanis’ hand on his chest heats Davrin’s blood, as does another glancing kick off the swell of his calf. Lucanis wishes he had his boots on, to drive the point of the toe in rather than his bare feet.
It goads Davrin into grappling his leg. This close, he can smell the wine on Davrin's breath. He grasps Davrin's shoulders to push away and feels the muscles flex under his hands. Davrin's superior reach and weight can't force him down. Lucanis moves too quick, balanced, so focused in the flow he forgets he's naked.
Lucanis never thought of battle as dance, until now. A dance is pure expectation, anticipating a partner's next move and matching it. As an assassin, his target never expects him.
In this dance, his lungs draw air in time with Davrin's. Their blood thrums at the same tempo. Even Spite sings in his veins.
Catching himself on his palms, Lucanis springs back up. Davrin sweeps his free leg out from under him with perfect momentum, sending Lucanis sprawling on his back.
Davrin follows him down, pulling Lucanis’ leg around his waist. His hand slides over Lucanis’ heaving stomach and pins him down on the other side.
Lucanis tries to bash him in the flank with his heel, but Davrin has his calf gripped too tightly. He struggles uselessly as a landed fish thrashing against the deck of a boat.
As he tires and his struggles slow, Lucanis is struck by the unfamiliar press of skin on skin. Davrin kneels over him, breathing heavily, so close that Lucanis can feel his heat where they aren't touching. Davrin’s blunt nails dig into his flesh.
They're both silent. Lucanis can't find the words, nor can he look away. Davrin stares him down, eyes catching him as firmly as the grip of his hands.
“I told you it's better naked,” Davrin says. The low purr of his voice rattles something loose inside Lucanis, pulling out a peal of laughter.
Davrin laughs too. He lets go of Lucanis, whose fingers twitch with the impulse to grab his wrist and pull him back.
Instead, Davrin lies down next to him, pressed flank-to-flank. He drapes his arm over Lucanis’ chest, and Lucanis’ cock twitches against his thigh.
Mortified, he lifts his leg to conceal it, but it's too late. Davrin’s brow quirks, and his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. The moment stretches excruciatingly, shame failing to snuff out Lucanis’ insistent arousal.
“Mierda, this isn't– this has never happened to me before,” Lucanis admits.
“Never? Because if you need a refresher on how your cock works ...”
Spite’s cruel amusement seems unfair. He doesn't know anything about cocks Lucanis doesn't also know, but he laughs anyway.
Lucanis groans at both of them. “It doesn't work like this,” he insists.
Davrin sits up, openly watching him. “Crows aren’t Chantry sisters. You're allowed to fuck as much as Wardens are,” he says. Lucanis curls his lip, because Davrin knows nothing about the Crows and yet keeps running his mouth, then jerks in surprise.
Davrin’s fingers dig into Lucanis’ wrist. He runs his thumb slowly over the back of Lucanis’ hand where the sinews flex.
Something in Lucanis snaps. He surges up until his mouth collides with Davrin’s in a bruising clash of lips and teeth. There's no finesse in his kiss, just the wild flood after a dam breaks. The angle is wrong and their noses bump; his cock bobs anyway.
Davrin opens his mouth for Lucanis, and their tongues meet. Lucanis has kissed before, and he's read passionate embraces in his favourite romances. They were nothing like this.
He’s gone from half-mast to as hard as he's even been in his life from a kiss, making the comparison moot.
Davrin breaks away. He cups Lucanis’ chin in his hand, lifting it so he can trail soft kisses over his beard until it fades into skin. Eyes open, Lucanis can see a wet sheen on Davrin’s forehead.
“Taste!” Spite demands, suddenly active when he'd been relatively quiet. His separate form presses translucent purple lips to a bead of sweat, and licks at it with a phantom tongue. The demon is an empty spectre without control of Lucanis’ body, unable to truly act, but Lucanis feels the stab of his thirst.
“Please,” Lucanis says, with no idea what he's asking for. His cock aches, and his hips roll forward instinctively.
Davrin’s smile curves against his neck. “Yeah, I hear you," he says.
Davrin pushes Lucanis down until his shoulders meet the floor. His other hand is between his own legs, fingers coming back slippery. He brushes the base of Lucanis’ cock and Lucanis jolts up.
“Do you need me to hold you down?” asks Davrin. It's playful, but Lucanis hears an underlying note of seriousness. Lucanis doesn't need it.
“I can take it,” he hisses through clenched teeth. Lucanis isn't sure he can, but he wants to like never before.
At least Davrin respects him enough to accept his answer. He straddles Lucanis, one knee on either side of Lucanis’ thighs, squatting over Lucanis’ cock. He spreads his cunt open, and the visible glans of his own erection peeking out from under its hood swells purple with blood.
Lucanis watches him stroke it between his thumb and middle finger. He's getting himself wet, and Lucanis’ cock drips precome in sympathy, sliding down the shaft in a slow trickle.
Lowering himself a few inches further, Davrin positions himself over Lucanis. The lips of his cunt envelop Lucanis’ shaft, his weight pushing Lucanis's cock flat against his stomach, while the stiff nub of Davrin's clit pushes against the sensitive spot below the head. The crown of Lucanis' cock pokes obscenely out from under Davrin’s cunt as Davrin slides back and forth over the shaft.
It's almost too good, and it takes a twist of pain from Spite to prevent Lucanis from spending himself immediately. He bites the heel of his own hand to muffle his moans as Davrin rocks against him. For a stoic Warden, Davrin is shamelessly vocal in his pleasure, groaning and whispering encouragement and obscenities in his sex-roughened voice.
Lucanis fights to hold out, surrounded by the weight and scent of the man grinding against him. Spite gives a phantom tug on his balls, a Crow trick, but between the wet sounds and rising pleasure, Lucanis peaks and shatters.
He shudders through his orgasm, clawing wildly at Davrin's knees and anything else he can reach. The pulses of come land sticky on his belly, while Davrin rubs his own cock hard until the solid legs at Lucanis’ flanks are shaking too.
They make their way to Davrin's bed, once the cold floor loses its charm.
Davrin’s questing fingers find a divot in his thigh, and the matching one on the other side. There's a flash of sympathy in his dark eyes, and Lucanis shakes his head.
“This one is from Vyrantium, not the Ossuary.”
Davrin finds another mark in Lucanis’ hip, then the messier scar through his shoulder. He touches with painfully gentle curiosity.
“Fucking spider legs. I didn't see the healer in due time,” Lucanis explains.
“But you got your quarry,” Davrin says. Confidence warms his voice.
Lucanis shrugs. “I would never abandon a contract. If the target lets himself be possessed and turns into an abomination, that is one of the hazards of specialising in killing mages.”
“Bigger target. Easier to hit,” observes Davrin wryly. “And you'd better tell me all about the spider abomination, because I've got to carve that.”