Archive of Our Own

It was all just part of becoming a Crow.

There are many facets to mastering the art of assassination, just as there are countless ways to end a life. But a true predator does not simply kill - he ensures his prey is well and truly ensnared before the blade ever meets flesh.

And so, to Viago de Riva’s profound distaste, seduction training was yet another refinement of his craft, an unavoidable step on the path to perfection. He had no interest in playing the lovestruck fool or whispering honeyed lies into the ears of his marks, but the lesson was clear: charm could be as deadly as a dagger, and desire could be a leash just as binding as steel chains. To secure his place among the Crows - and more importantly, to prove to his father that he was worthy of his own legacy in becoming a Crow - Viago would master this skill, no matter how bitter the taste it left in his mouth.

Bitter tastes, after all, were becoming his specialty. His true artistry, he had learned, lay in the delicate mastery of poisons - the slow, creeping kind that whispered death rather than roared it. A few drops in a goblet, a tincture slipped into a midnight cordial - that was the elegance he aspired to.

Sadly, however, Heir, his ever-exasperated trainer, did not share his appreciation for such methods. Poisoning an entire wine barrel, he was informed, was both crude and inefficient. This task was about singling out the individual, being able to corner them into such a sense of false security that they would raise the wine goblet to their lips themselves, and be disposed of in a quiet fashion.

Viago recalled that he had thought it would be simple. A game. A challenge, but one he could master like all the others. He had watched his fellow recruits jest and boast, treating the task as a lark, an indulgence. He had even joined in. They had all spoken of their chosen prey as conquests, reducing them to marks to be won over and discarded. The proof of success was to be presented to Heir - some token snatched in the aftermath, something to signify their triumph.

Most recruits chose undergarments.

It was crude, but effective. Proof of seduction. Proof of persuasion. Proof of control.

It was a task every Crow was expected to undertake, and Viago would be lying if he claimed he hadn’t thought of a few recruits who would have made this assignment infinitely easier.

Why, then, had fate, or more likely, Heir’s twisted sense of humor at his expense- saddled him with someone so profoundly odd and insufferably vexing?

Lucanis Dellamorte.

Heir had known exactly what she was doing when she assigned him this task. Lucanis wasn’t some naive noble, eager for whispered flattery and stolen glances. He was deliberate, restrained, and infuriatingly immovable. More than that, he was a Crow - and Crows were rarely chosen as marks.

Viago could only assume this was a lesson in humility, a punishment for his own arrogance. A game he was never meant to win.

Lucanis. Dellamorte.

He was barely older than Viago- early twenties, at most. Already carving out a reputation as a formidable hunter in his own right, independent of the Dellamorte name. But socially? Disastrous. Far worse than Viago had ever anticipated.

And that was saying something, considering Viago was well aware that he was considered peculiar by Antivan standards.

This was not going to be a pleasant or straightforward experience. It was as if Heir had scoured the ranks for the single most unyielding, infuriatingly unreceptive person possible.

Viago had, as always, prepared meticulously. He had dissected literature and art, analysing the recurring patterns of attraction woven through them. He had cross-referenced these findings with his extensive study of the human psyche, narrowing his focus to the distinct psychological inclinations of Antivan males. However, a flaw in the data remained - most of the available subjects had been incarcerated males, their behaviours shaped as much by confinement as by culture. It was an imperfect foundation, but it was what he had to work with.

From this, a strategy emerged - gradual acclimation.

Lucanis Dellamorte was sharp. If he even suspected a ploy, he would sever it at the root before it had the chance to take hold. No, this could not be overt. There could be no clear shifts, no sudden changes that would alert him to Viago’s intent. Instead, it had to be slow, so measured that Lucanis would not recognise the influence until it had already settled in.

Viago had been laying the foundations for weeks; carefully, deliberately. Befriending Lucanis, or at least fostering something that resembled friendship between the two of them, was the first step. He had learned to navigate the silences between them, to let them stretch without forcing conversation. Lucanis was a man of few words, but he was not immune to familiarity.

They often sat together in quiet companionship, reading by lamplight or beneath the dappled shade of the awnings at Café Pietra. It was in these moments - unspoken, unobtrusive - that Viago wove his presence into the fabric of Lucanis’ routine. He did not press, did not push. He simply was.

And that, he knew, was how it would begin.

He had arranged for them to meet, as usual, at the café. A familiar setting, one that bred comfort through routine. He would not order drinks, not at first. Anything too deliberate, too preemptive, might stir suspicion. Instead, he would simply be there, settled at their usual table, a book in hand.

The Wistful Waif.

Viago had seen Lucanis reading it before, tucked away in solitude, the cover half-obscured as if he didn’t wish to be caught with it. That alone had been telling. Beneath the icy reserve and assassin’s pragmatism, Master Dellamorte was, it seemed, something of a romantic.

That was good. Romantics crumbled harder. Or so he had been led to believe by his research.

So it was that he found himself seated amidst the hum of a bustling crowd, book in hand, the air thick with the scent of roasted coffee and spiced pastries.

The book was dreadful.

A lovesick maiden, trailing after a brooding knight across empires, pining endlessly until, at last, he relented. The grand crescendo - a fevered confession, a dramatic embrace, love declared in the final breath of the final page. Predictable. Saccharine. Exhausting.

Viago turned a page with practiced patience, resisting the urge to scoff aloud. Did Lucanis actually enjoy this tripe? The thought was almost amusing. Cold, calculating Lucanis Dellamorte, lost in the pages of overwrought devotion?

But then, he supposed, even the most disciplined of men had their weaknesses.

Viago heard the footsteps before he saw him - light, near soundless, a practiced ghosting over the ground. Lucanis moved like a shadow through years of effort, but Viago had been listening for him.

He did not look up immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch just long enough to be deliberate, turning a page as though he had only now deigned to acknowledge the presence behind him.

"You're here. Finally." His tone was a lazy drawl, equal parts boredom and expectation, all part of the design.

The chair beside him was pulled out with precise, careful movements, barely a whisper against the worn terracotta tiles.

"I had business to attend to," Lucanis offered, his voice as unreadable as ever. A statement, not an apology.

Viago didn’t bother responding, instead watching the way Lucanis’ gaze flickered - just for a moment - to the book in his hands. Noted. Catalogued. Stored away in that meticulous mind of his.

Viago exhaled through his nose and, with calculated nonchalance, flipped the book shut, cover down, as though he’d rather not be caught with it at all. Let Lucanis wonder. Let him think he had uncovered something unintended.

Viago lifted two fingers in a casual gesture as a passing waiter swept by. "Two espressos." A simple request, spoken without hesitation.

Lucanis clasped his hands together on the table, watching him with that ever-measuring gaze. "You remember my order."

Viago flicked a look at him, unimpressed. "It is not exactly hard."

Lucanis laughed then - an unguarded, fleeting thing, gone as quickly as it came. But Viago caught it, noted the way it softened the usual severity of his expression.

Everything about Lucanis was deliberate, sculpted with precision. Viago studied him, letting his gaze linger just long enough to commit details to memory. His hair was cut just so - tapered at the sides, longer on top, oiled down in the latest fashion. Illario’s influence, no doubt. His face was just as meticulous, clean-shaven to perfection, no errant hairs, no careless shadow creeping in at the jaw. A man shaped by discipline. By expectation.

Viago wondered if there was anything about Lucanis that had not been designed.

"What are you reading today?"

Lucanis broke the silence first, the fly caught in the web.

Viago exhaled, feigning embarrassment, dragging his fingers over the deliberate scruff on his chin, an affectation he had only recently decided to cultivate.

"Nothing. It's a stupid, fanciful book." He dismissed it with a wave of his hand, as if the words held no weight.

Lucanis didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he reached across the table, his fingers brushing the book’s worn edges before turning it over with deliberate care. The silence stretched as he took in the title.

"Ah."

Viago arched a brow. "Ah?"

Lucanis smirked - just a hint of it creeping at the edge of his full lips. "You didn’t strike me as the type."

"And exactly what type is it, that you refer to?"

Now was when the pre-lovers' quarrel began. Viago had anticipated this, indeed he had been counting on it. They had debated before, and he knew well that disagreement was one of the surest ways to draw fire from the otherwise composed Lucanis Dellamorte. Passion, once ignited, could be redirected.

This was the foundation upon which he would build his next phase: comfort.

Lucanis tilted his head slightly, assessing. “The sentimental type,” he said finally, his voice edged with amusement. “The kind that loses themselves in longing looks and tragic endings.”

Viago scoffed, leaning forward. “And you? Do you read these for study, then? A detached analysis of overwrought emotion?”

Lucanis smirked, but there was something in his eyes - interest.

Good. Viago had his opening.

"Not exactly." Lucanis looked away, only briefly. Viago was sure he almost saw a blush creep up on the man's neck.

Prey ready for entrapment. Viago leaned in closer to Lucanis, just enough for him to feel the heat of his breath. His lips hovered near Lucanis’ ear, the words whispered like a challenge, intimate and dangerous.

"If it is longing you are interested in, I managed to obtain some particularly risque sketches from an artist's apprentice, should you want a private viewing."

His voice was a smooth whisper, low and enticing. Viago made sure to pull back just enough to gauge Lucanis’ reaction. Curiosity? Discomfort? He needed the smallest crack in the façade to widen for the hunt to continue.

For a brief moment, Lucanis said nothing, his posture remaining rigid, as though the suggestion had not even ruffled his composure. But Viago could feel a shift in the air, a breath held for just a little to long.

When Lucanis did finally speak, his tone was as measured as ever, but there was a subtle wariness to his words. “What makes you think I'd be interested in that?”

Viago smirked. “Doesn’t it? I would have thought the idea of desire would intrigue you. It's a main theme within this book.”

His words hung in the air, and Viago knew that he had struck a nerve, could see Lucanis' mind furiously tick away. He saw it again, a panic in his face. Was it embarassment, or curiousity? Either way, it meant success.

Module one of Seduction Training was therefore complete. Now onto the second.

Viago knew his next step. Comfort. Gradual. He would need to pull back, let the tension settle, then let the deeper layers of this delicate game unfurl.

The timing of the coffee's arrival, could not have been greater. As Viago’s fingers lightly tapped the table, the server placed the espressos before them. With a fluid movement, he picked up his espresso. Even through his lambskin gloves, he could still feel the heat permeate through the china. He darted his tongue in delicately, careful not to show Lucanis that he was not fully imbibing.

"You were right, it is certainly the best roast in Treviso."

He was back to being nonchalant, as though he hadn't just scandalised the other man with his proximity.

"Mmm." Lucanis replied, the interaction had clearly ruffled his feathers a little more than Viago had anticipated. It was still fine though, this was still workable. He could see that Lucanis' body was stiff though, his movements mechanical as he moved his arm to place the coffee cup at his lips.

Viago’s lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smile as he leaned in slightly, his voice low and casual. “I also have less risque sketches, if that is not your thing.”

It was a baited comment, a subtle suggestion that Lucanis had the option of retreating, of maintaining his composure. But it was also an invitation. Viago was testing whether Lucanis would close off or allow the vulnerability to seep through. He bargained on him accepting, he'd have already left he hypothesised, had he truly been uncomfortable.

"That would be nice."

Viago’s lips curled into a subtle, self-assured smile as Lucanis gave him the smallest hint of approval. Ha, he thought to himself, a quiet victory. The prey was ensnared and enticed. The challenge now would be to isolate him, to drive him away from the herd.

"We will finish up then, and go to my quarters. I've an assortment of tasteful nudes, and some watercolour landscapes that I believe may interest you."

He stood up then, and left the coffee on the table. Lucanis looked to the full cup, and raised an eyebrow.

"You aren't going to finish this?"

Viago looked down at the cup, and then to Lucanis. "I find too much caffeine in the system disagrees with me." Without waiting for a reply, Viago turned smoothly towards the door, his back straight and his movements deliberate. The message was clear: he wasn’t staying to explain himself further. "Shall we?"

Lucanis too, stood up then and they made their way to the door. It struck Viago that he had never noticed how short the other man was, as compared to himself. It didn’t change much, but it was interesting to note. Viago couldn’t help but wonder if Lucanis had ever considered his height in the same way, whether he noticed it as he measured his presence against others. Surely, he had been proving his worth within The Crows, and Viago's own mother had once told him as a child that "good things come in small packages - like arsenic".

They meandered through the bustling streets of Treviso, weaving through the lively crowds as they made their way to the modest apartment where Viago was staying. It was a far cry from the lavish residences he had been accustomed to during his childhood, an era when the privileges of being the bastard son of a king had afforded him an easy life.

But that was before he had chosen a different path, one that had cut him off from the royal treasury outright. Now, as an apprentice Crow, Viago was learning to survive on meager earnings that hardly stretched far enough to provide more than the basics. The apartment he rented was a far cry from the opulent quarters of his youth. Small, worn, and functional, it offered little in the way of comfort, save for the solitude it provided.

He preferred to spend his limited earnings where they mattered most; on maintaining his appearance, almost a requirement in his profession, and on things that nourished his mind and curiosity. Books, their spines worn from constant reading, filled the small shelves of his apartment. Art, often acquired from local markets, adorned the walls, an eclectic mix that reflected both his appreciation for beauty and his desire to own things that carried a story. But it wasn’t just the intellectual or aesthetic that called to him. Vials of strange, potent substances, each labeled with a code only he understood, were neatly arranged on a workbench. These were for his at-home experiments, a private hobby that allowed him to delve into the the destruction of life via alchemical means. It spoke to his curious and mathematical mind.

The front entrance to his apartment was far from impressive - shabby even, with the door itself resisting every attempt to open it. The humidity of the air had swollen the oak frame, causing it to stick stubbornly in place. Viago, tall and lean, stepped forward with a grunt and pushed against the door, throwing his shoulder into it with an effort that felt almost too familiar. He gave it a few more solid shoves, using his weight to budge it.

"Usually-" He banged against it again, "it’s done-" and then once more, "pretty quickly!" His final shove had the desired effect, and with a reluctant creak, the door gave way with a shudder.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he said, smoothing down his doublet with an easy smile, as if the whole exchange hadn't been a battle with the stubborn wood.

Lucanis stood just inside the doorway, his lips curling in the slightest hint of a sneer, though he quickly masked it. As a Dellamorte, with bloodline as rich as his grandmother’s coffers, the contrast between this disheveled place and his own more opulent surroundings could not have been starker. Viago caught the glint in his eyes, the quiet judgment that dripped from him like honeyed venom. The apartment, with its mismatched furniture, faded curtains, and the lingering scent of incense, felt worlds apart from the cold, aristocratic perfection of Villa Dellamorte.

Viago couldn’t help but grin at the thought. This, he realised, was probably the worst place Lucanis had ever set foot, his bohemian quarters, his sanctuary from the world of polished stones and politics. Viago had traded the gilded halls of the elite for this humble, cramped refuge, but it was his, and in some strange way, it felt more like home than any grand estate ever could. Further to this, he knew the harder he worked, such as passing this seduction training test, the more likely it was that he one day would have an estate to rival Lucanis', and he could sneer on back, returning the gesture.

Viago shoved the door back into place with a decisive thud, the sound of the lock clicking shut echoing through the small apartment. He turned, unconcerned with the slight groan the door made as it settled, and strode over to a worn desk in the corner. The desk had clearly seen better days, its wood scratched and weathered, the surface cluttered with ink stains and forgotten notes. But atop it sat a neat stack of papers, each sheet carefully organised. These were sketches, detailed and precise, drawn by his neighbour, an artist's apprentice with a sharp eye for the grotesque and the beautiful in equal measure.

Viago flicked through the papers with a casual air, his fingers lightly tracing the edges of the sketches as if he were scanning through them for something particular.

Lucanis, meanwhile, remained standing in the middle of the room, stiff as a board. The tension between them hung in the air, palpable as Viago turned the pages with an almost absent-minded air, his attention flicking between them as he glanced back up to the Dellamorte heir.

"Ahhh, here we are."

Viago broke the silence with a low, almost playful murmur, his lips curling into a devilish grin as he glanced over at Lucanis. The look in his eyes was teasing, mischievous. "Do you not want to see?"

Lucanis hesitated for a moment, as if the question had pulled him from a deeper thought. His composure faltered only briefly before he nodded. He strode forward with purpose, his long strides bringing him closer to Viago as he leaned in to inspect the sketches.

The drawing in question was striking; capturing the form of a naked man sitting on a chair, his body relaxed, hands raised above his head in a posture that spoke of potential ecstasy. The stark lines of the sketch, the way the muscles of the man's arms and torso were rendered in bold strokes, gave the scene a raw intensity. It was unsettling, but also undeniably captivating. A glimpse into something darker and more complex.

Viago watched Lucanis intently, his grin widening slightly, curious to see how the other man would react to such an intimate, provocative piece of art.

"You truly have an eye for art," was the only reply Lucanis could give.

Viago’s grin remained, though there was a subtle shift in his posture as he proffered the sketch toward Lucanis. He held it out, fingers lightly curling around the edge of the paper, the movement almost deliberate. As the sketch passed between them, Viago brushed his gloved hand lightly against Lucanis' skin. The touch was brief but unmistakable, charged with a quiet intensity.

Lucanis’ eyes flickered to his hand, then back to the sketch. Viago saw the slight swallow in Lucanis’ throat as their hands made contact, and a flicker in his eyelashes as they batted.

Viago leaned in closer, his breath warm against Lucanis' ear as he lowered his voice. "You see the difference in pose, and application?" he murmured, his words almost a soft hiss, his body keeping a calculated closeness to Lucanis' frame.

He tilted his head just slightly, peering over the smaller man’s shoulder to study the sketch, though his eyes never truly left Lucanis. "Truly, Giancarlo will be a master one day," he breathed, the words an almost reverent whisper.

Viago leaned an arm over Lucanis then, his gloved fingers brushing the edge of the sketchbook as he flicked to the next drawing. This time, he felt it, Lucanis going still, his breath catching for just a moment before he held it, as if uncertain whether to exhale.

Viago’s lips curled. Interesting.

He turned the page deliberately, his movements slow, almost indulgent. The next drawing revealed itself in bold, confident strokes, the same model, now fully exposed, reclining on a bed amidst rumpled sheets. The play of shadow and light on his body was masterful, the lines speaking of intimacy, of something raw and unguarded.

Viago let the moment stretch, relishing the way Lucanis’ posture tensed ever so slightly beside him. Then, with a knowing smirk, he murmured, “He is Giancarlo’s lover. I’m sure I don’t need to further clarify the meaning of this piece.” His voice was soft, edged with amusement.

He didn’t look at Lucanis just yet. He didn’t need to. He could feel the reaction in the space between them, the unspoken tension thickening like ink on parchment.

Viago leaned in closer, his breath skimming over the curve of Lucanis' neck. When Lucanis didn’t move, he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to his skin, his lips barely more than a ghost of contact.

There it was. The softest of sighs.

Viago knew then - module two was complete.

His lips curled as he lingered just a moment longer before pulling away, satisfaction coiling in his chest. All that was left now was to finish to completion, to secure a trophy, and to ensure that Heir would sign off on his work.

He reached his arms around Lucanis' midsection, undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, as he continued to press slow, lingering kisses down the line of Lucanis’ neck. Each one deliberate, savouring the way the tension in his body shifted - less rigid now, yielding.

Then, that sound. A low groan escaping Lucanis’ lips.

Viago felt him tip his head back, baring more of that kissable stretch of skin, an unspoken invitation. A sharp thrill ran through him. Submission, surrender - whatever this was, Lucanis was giving him something.

And Viago intended to take it.

With the buttons of Lucanis' waistcoat undone, Viago let his fingers wander, tracing lazy patterns over the fine fabric of his shirt. He toyed with the loosened hem, slipping beneath the edge just enough to brush against warm skin, a teasing contrast to the cool leather of his gloves.

Lucanis, his head tipped back, eyes shuttered, did nothing to stop him.

Viago’s smirk deepened. So it was like this, then.

He leaned in, pressing another kiss just below Lucanis’ ear, reveling in the way the other man responded, not with resistance, but quiet acceptance. He had wondered, briefly, if Lucanis might reject him. If the Dellamorte heir would stiffen, recoil, snap at him to stop. But there had been none of that, only the slow unfurling of tension.

Viago knew better than to assume. He had never heard of Lucanis indulging in any dalliances within the Crows, but that meant little. Crows were an unusually discreet bunch. And Lucanis, for all his sharp edges and cold silences, was no exception.

Still, this - the way Lucanis melted back into him, the way his breath hitched but he made no move to stop Viago’s wandering hands - this was unexpected.

He deepened the kiss on Lucanis' throat, lapping at it with his tongue, devouring him, before he slipped a cold gloved hand under the waistband of his trousers, and grinned. Lucanis was throbbing under the simplest of touches, engorged and full. As Viago stroked his cock, Lucanis turned his head to meet Viago's and smashed his lips into his face. The kiss was heavy, full of tongue, passionate. Viago continued to stroke Lucanis' with his index finger and thumb, the leather of his gloves creating a friction as he slided up and down. Lucanis soon lost purchase of the artwork he had been holding, but Viago no longer cared. They were only sketches anyway, and one day he'd be able to afford the finished product.

Lucanis groaned again, in an open-mouthed kiss as Viago bit on his lower lip and continued to pump slowly at his cock, teasing him still. The noises Lucanis was making were pure and visceral. And though Viago kept reminding himself in his head that this was only seduction training, he could not help but become aroused himself.

Lucanis must have felt his need, pressing insistently against his side, because in an instant, he shoved Viago off with a force that took him by surprise.

Viago stumbled back a step, blinking. He had frankly forgotten the smaller man possessed such strength.

For a beat, silence stretched between them. Viago’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk as he straightened his doublet, smoothing away any dishevelment, composing himself.

Lucanis stared at him with wild eyes, and for a short moment, Viago wondered if he had clocked what was occurring. Until he saw him whip his waistcoat off, throwing it to the floor in reckless abandon. Lucanis then ran at him, crashing his body towards Viago's, and pulled him down into a hungry kiss as he pushed him back at the small bed.

They stumbled clumsily onto the bed, Viago on his back, Lucanis straddling him and lapping at his neck. It was not entirely natural for Viago, who normally liked to be the one in charge, but it wasn't unpleasant. Lucanis then sat upright, and undid the buttons on his silk shirt, letting his toned and muscled chest be bare, before he moved his hands up Viago's still clothed body.

With the greatest of care, and sheer worship, Lucanis slowly undid Viago's doublet, button by button. All the while he ground himself into Viago's core. Viago felt his breath hitch, the friction, the lustful scrutiny that he now felt bidden by creating the overwhelming aroma of sensuality. As the doublet become further loosened, Lucanis ran his fingers up and down Viago's chest, that had been carefully cultivated and neatened with precise razor strokes, the few hairs he did possess oiled and perfumed into obedience.

Lucanis continued to rub his hands up and down Viago's chest, before stroking down to his still gloved hands and entwining his fingers, as he continued to grind down on him. One by one, Lucanis lifted a gloved hand up to his mouth, before he kissed at it, and took an entire finger in his mouth, sucking on it wantonly, before nipping it at the end with his teeth to pull the glove off.

With the gloves off, Lucanis then worked at getting Viago into a similar state of undress.

Viago propped himself up on his shoulders as Lucanis pushed his doublet off them, before the smaller man met his mouth with a crashing kiss, his tongue slipping in his mouth. Viago felt Lucanis' pressing need near his waistband, and he grabbed Lucanis by the neck to deepen the kiss, before pushing him over onto his back. The kiss deepened even more, as their legs tangled. Lucanis wrapped his hands around Viago's head, lustily grabbing at his curls. Viago broke the kiss, his mouth swollen and pink.

"Vial."

He knew that somewhere in his stash of chemical wonders, was a lubricant that he often used as a carrying agent. If this was going to go the whole way, which seemed likely (lest he tip Lucanis off, naturally), they would be needing a way to ensure no one was unneccessarily hurt.

Lucanis stared back at him blankly, his now also pink mouth agape as he witnessed Viago heave himself off and crawl towards a leather bag underneath the desk, scrabbling about madly in it.

"Aha."

Lubricant in a small glass vial secured, he clutched at it like a madman. Lucanis still lay on his bed, the sheets a mess, and he mused that he looked convincingly similar to the sketch of Giancarlo's lover he had shown him earlier. Fate was an odd mistress.

Viago then got to work taking his leather boots off, causing Lucanis to follow in suit. They were now both just left in their breeches, and Viago felt the need to complete as he panted, staring at Lucanis naked chest.

Viago strode towards the bed with purpose, before lowering himself down to his knees, and kissed his way up Lucanis' legs. He stopped his kisses at Lucanis' crotch and ghosted his breath across right below the waistband of Lucanis' trousers.

He bent down, and undid the top button of his breeches with his teeth, causing a loud moan to once again emit from Lucanis, who bucked up into his face. Sensing the urgency, Viago trailed a hand towards the buttons and undid them delicately, before rather undelicately whipping them off with both hands, leaving Lucanis exposed, with only an unbuttoned silk shirt around his shoulders left on.

His cock was full, and glistening at the tip, where the excitement had been too much, causing the precum to pool and leak out all over the tip. Viago bent down to kiss it, and slurped at the tip as Lucanis moaned again, before an interesting turn of events unfolded.

Lucanis pushed Viago off, and turned his attention to undoing Viago's trousers. His own cock flopped out, heavy under it's own girth and length, and Viago could have sworn he heard Lucanis gasp.

It wasn't long until Viago finally returned the mutiple groans Lucanis had already freely given.

Lucanis wrapped his lips around the head of his cock, sucking and licking at it, in a manner that suggested this was clearly not his first time. There was no way those romance books of his could have taught him such a skill. There was no respite from the pleasure, just the continual encroachment of Lucanis' lips nearing the base of Viago's cock.

Viago felt his cock hit the back of Lucanis' throat, and a muffled protestation followed shortly thereafter, which caused a loud gasp to burst forth from his lips. Lucanis slurped his way back up Viago's cock, and flicked his tongue at the tip as he looked him straight in the eyes.

Viago had never felt so animalistic and raw.

Vial still in hand, he shoved the cork end into his mouth, and with one swift motion pulled it out with his teeth. He emptied the contents into his left hand, before he liberally spread it all over his shaft. Lucanis braced himself on the bed, his eyes never once leaving Viago's shaft.

Viago grabbed one of Lucanis' legs in each hand, and braced himself, breathing out as he positioned himself near Lucanis' hole. He pushed himself at his entrance slowly, and groaned as he sunk himself into the tightness.

As his tip breached the entrance, he heard Lucanis groan in such a way that he had never heard before. Long, gutteral.

He slowly entered his length, and as he neared the end of his shaft saw Lucanis' eyes flutter into the back of his head. It was only then that he pondered that he was in any way above average like his housemates had laughed at him when he was younger.

Slowly, he thrust his hips into Lucanis. He quickened his pace slightly, once he was used to the sensation. Lucanis gripped at his own cock, pumping it. Viago looked at his own hand, still slick with lubricant, and spat into it, before guiding Lucanis on pleasuring his own cock.

Lucanis was easy to please.

Groans spilled from the Dellamorte heir once more, low and guttural, as Viago guided his hand alongside Lucanis'. Their fingers intertwined, slick with lubricant, moving in tandem as they stroked Lucanis' length. Viago's other hand gripped Lucanis' hip, steadying him as he continued to thrust deeply, each movement deliberate and measured. The room was filled with the sound of skin against skin, the faint scent of sweat and arousal hanging heavy in the air.

"M… Mierda."

"Mierda…" Lucanis gasped, the word catching in his throat, barely audible over the rhythm of their bodies. His voice was strained, breathless, and Viago could feel the tension coiling in the man beneath him. Lucanis was close - closer than Viago had expected. He had assumed the normally composed and calculating heir would last longer, but the signs were unmistakable: the flush creeping across Lucanis' cheeks, the way his lips parted and trembled with every thrust, the desperate clench of his fingers around his own length.

Viago smirked, a flicker of pride warming his chest. He withdrew his hand from Lucanis', leaving the man to take over, and watched as Lucanis' slick fingers moved frantically, struggling to maintain a rhythm. Every time Viago drove into him, Lucanis' moans grew louder, more ragged, his body arching off the bed as if chasing the sensation. The sight was intoxicating - Lucanis, usually so controlled and reserved, now unraveling beneath him, his composure shattered.

It was almost amusing, Viago thought, how quickly Lucanis had come undone. He hadn’t done anything particularly extraordinary, at least not in his own estimation. Yet here Lucanis was, sprawled across the bed, his chest heaving, his skin glistening with sweat, his lips parted as he panted for air. His eyes, wide and dark, locked onto Viago’s, only to roll back with a shudder every time Viago’s thrusts found that perfect angle, that spot that made Lucanis’ breath hitch and his body tremble.

Viago leaned down, his voice a low murmur against Lucanis’ ear. “Caro mio…"

Lucanis’ response was a broken moan, his hips bucking as he teetered on the edge. Viago could feel the tension in the man’s body, the way every muscle tightened as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter. He increased his pace, his own breathing growing ragged, determined to push Lucanis over that edge, to watch him fall apart completely.

Lucanis’ breath hitched, his body trembling as Viago’s words washed over him. The praise, the command, it was too much, and yet not enough. His fingers moved faster, his strokes growing erratic as pleasure surged through him, hot and unrelenting. He could feel the pressure building, a coiled spring ready to snap, and he bit down on his lower lip to stifle the cries threatening to spill from his throat.

But Viago wouldn’t allow it. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against Lucanis’ ear, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Don’t hold back, mio. I want to hear you.”

The words broke something in Lucanis, and a strangled moan escaped him, raw and unfiltered. His hips jerked upward, his body arching as Viago’s thrusts grew harder, deeper, each one driving him closer to the edge. His hand on his own length faltered, his rhythm lost as pleasure overwhelmed him, and Viago took over, his larger hand wrapping around Lucanis’ and guiding him with firm, deliberate strokes.

“That’s it,” Viago murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

Viago saw Lucanis' head fall back against the pillows as his body tightened, it was clear to him that every nerve was alight with sensation. He could feel it - the inexorable pull of release, the way his muscles clenched and his breath came in shallow gasps. And then, with a cry that was half a sob, Lucanis came undone, his release spilling over Viago’s hand and his own stomach as his body convulsed with pleasure.

Viago didn’t stop, his thrusts relentless as he chased his own release, spurred on by the sight of Lucanis unraveling beneath him. He could feel the way Lucanis’ body clenched around him, the way his breath hitched with every movement, and it drove him closer to the edge. His grip on Lucanis’ hip tightened, his movements growing rougher, more urgent, until finally, with a low groan, he found his own release, his body shuddering as he buried himself deep within Lucanis.

For a moment, the room was silent except for the sound of their ragged breathing. Viago leaned over Lucanis, bracing himself on his arms as he caught his breath, his forehead resting against Lucanis’ shoulder. Lucanis, for his part, lay boneless beneath him, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to steady his breathing. His eyes were half-lidded, his expression dazed, and Viago couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“You’re a mess,” Viago said, his voice teasing but fond as he brushed a strand of hair from Lucanis’ forehead.

Lucanis let out a breathless laugh, his voice hoarse. “You’re one to talk.”

Lucanis turned his head to look at him, his expression soft, almost vulnerable. “That was…” He trailed off, searching for the right words.

“Incredible?” Viago supplied, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Lucanis rolled his eyes, but there was no denying the smile that curved his lips. “Something like that.”

Viago smirked as he pulled himself out of Lucanis, his movements slow and deliberate, savouring the way Lucanis shuddered at the loss of contact. The man beneath him was a wreck - his chest still heaving, his skin flushed and glistening with sweat, his usually sharp and calculating demeanor replaced by a dazed, almost vulnerable expression. It was a rare sight, one that Viago knew few, if any, had ever been privileged to witness. Lucanis Dellamorte, the heir to one of the most powerful families, undone and laid bare.

But as much as Viago enjoyed the aftermath, he couldn’t afford to linger. There was still the matter of the trophy.

Most people in their line of work would settle for something simple; undergarments, a lock of hair, perhaps a piece of jewelry. But Viago had never been one to settle for simplicity. No, he had his eyes on something far more valuable, far more telling: one of the many daggers Lucanis carried on his person. Those blades were as much a part of him as his cunning and his composure, and securing one would not only prove Viago’s skill but also elevate his standing when it came to attributing scores. It was a risky move, but Viago had always thrived on risk.

He glanced down at Lucanis, who was still catching his breath, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Perfect. Viago moved quietly, his movements smooth and practiced as he reached for the dagger strapped to Lucanis’ discarded boot. The blade was sleek, its hilt adorned with intricate carvings of feathers, and inlaid with small purple jewels. Viago’s fingers brushed against the cool metal, and he paused for a moment, watching Lucanis’ face for any sign of awareness.

But Lucanis was too far gone, his body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. His breathing was slow and even now, his eyes drifting shut as exhaustion began to take hold. Viago allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as he carefully unbuckled the dagger and slipped it free, the weight of it solid and reassuring in his hand.

"Mmm…" Lucanis sighed, his head still lolled back against the pillows, his voice thick with exhaustion and lingering pleasure. The sound made Viago jump, his grip tightening around the dagger he’d just liberated from Lucanis’ person. He needed to hide it—now.

His eyes darted around the room, searching for a quick solution. Spotting the scattered artist’s drawings Lucanis had dropped earlier, Viago moved swiftly, scooping them up with one hand while carefully folding the dagger within the stack. He crossed the room in a few strides, tucking the bundle into the bureau drawer and shutting it with a soft click.

Just as he turned back, Lucanis suddenly sat up, propping himself on his elbows. His dark hair was disheveled, his cheeks still flushed, but his sharp eyes were already regaining their usual clarity.

"Mierda, why are you-" Lucanis began, his voice hoarse but incredulous. "-you cannot seriously be cleaning right now!?"

Viago froze, his mind racing for a plausible explanation. He forced a casual shrug, his tone light but slightly defensive. "Fine. Fine. But these drawings cost me a week’s wages. I’d rather not have them trampled."

Lucanis raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of amusement and disbelief. "You’re worried about drawings? After this?" He gestured vaguely between them, his lips quirking into a half-smile.

Viago shrugged again, feigning nonchalance as he leaned against the bureau. "What can I say? I’m a man of many priorities."

Lucanis rolled his eyes, flopping back onto the pillows with a huff. "Priorities," he muttered under his breath, though there was no real bite to his words.

Viago allowed himself a small, internal sigh of relief. The lie had worked, for now. But he couldn’t shake the paranoid feeling that Lucanis’ sharp mind was already piecing things together. The man was far too perceptive for his own good, and Viago knew he’d have to tread carefully in the coming days.

Still, as he glanced at Lucanis lying there, his guard momentarily down, Viago couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just the thrill of the game or the satisfaction of securing his trophy.

Whatever it was, Viago wasn’t going to examine it too closely. He couldn’t afford to. Relationships - real, messy, complicated relationships - were not part of his meticulous five-year plan for greatness. That plan was precise, calculated, and unyielding. It left no room for distractions, no room for vulnerability. And yet, here he was, standing at the edge of something he hadn’t anticipated, something that felt dangerously like a detour.

Shaking off the thought, Viago straightened and turned away from the bed. He had more pressing matters to attend to. The dagger - his trophy - was safely hidden, but he needed to figure out how to get it to Heir without raising suspicion. Lucanis was sharp, and if he noticed the missing blade, questions would follow.

Viago moved quietly around the room, gathering the scattered remnants of Lucanis’ clothes. He folded the trousers neatly and placed them on the chair, followed by the waistcoat, belt and the finely crafted boots that had been carelessly kicked aside. But when he looked for the shirt, it was nowhere to be found. He glanced under the bed, behind the bureau, even near the window, but the garment seemed to have vanished.

Frowning, Viago straightened and turned toward the bed - and there it was. Or rather, there he was. Lucanis lay sprawled across the sheets, his body relaxed in a way Viago had rarely seen. The silk shirt was still on him, though it hung open, revealing the smooth planes of his chest and the faint sheen of sweat that lingered on his skin. The fabric clung to his shoulders, the sleeves rumpled, and the hem barely covered his hips. It was a stark contrast to the man’s usual immaculate appearance, and yet, in this moment, Lucanis looked utterly at ease.

Viago paused, his gaze lingering on the sleeping figure. Lucanis’ dark hair was tousled, his lips slightly parted as he breathed deeply, and his long lashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks. The sight was… disarming. Viago had seen Lucanis in many states - focused, calculating, even vulnerable - but this was different. This was a side of him that felt private, almost sacred, and Viago couldn’t help but feel like an intruder, even in his own apartment.

"You've cleaned the entire room?" Lucanis yawned, his voice thick with sleep as he stretched lazily on the bed.

Viago, who had been in the process of adjusting the final item on the bureau, froze. He turned to face Lucanis, suddenly acutely aware of his own nakedness. The cool air of the room seemed to press against his skin, and he fought the urge to cross his arms or grab something to cover himself. Instead, he straightened his posture, trying to project an air of nonchalance.

"It's not a very big room," he replied, his tone casual, though his voice betrayed a hint of defensiveness.

Lucanis raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint smirk as he propped himself up on one elbow. "Most people would be… I don’t know, basking in the afterglow. Not tidying up like a particularly diligent maid."

Viago snorted, though he couldn’t help the warmth that crept into his cheeks. "I’m not most people," he said, crossing the room to retrieve his own clothes from where they’d been discarded earlier. He pulled on his trousers with deliberate slowness, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity.

"That's what I like about you," Lucanis murmured, his gaze lingering on Viago with an intensity that made the other man’s skin prickle. There was something in that look that made Viago feel exposed in a way that had nothing to do with his lack of clothing.

As he buttoned his shirt, Viago glanced at Lucanis, who was still watching him with that infuriatingly perceptive expression. "What?" he asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

Lucanis shrugged, the movement causing the silk shirt to slip even further. "Nothing. Just… admiring the view."

Viago didn’t respond, his focus fixed on buttoning his own shirt with deliberate precision. The air between them felt heavier now, charged with something neither of them seemed ready to address. Lucanis must have felt it too, because he suddenly busied himself with buttoning his own shirt, his gaze carefully avoiding Viago’s.

"This was… nice," Lucanis said after a moment, his tone casual but with a hint of uncertainty. He cleared his throat, trying to fill the silence. "We should, maybe, go for coffee another time?"

Viago hummed in agreement, the sound noncommittal, as if he were only half-listening. He didn’t look up as he fastened the last button on his shirt, his movements brisk and efficient.

Lucanis stood, the silk shirt still hanging loosely on his frame, and moved to the chair where his clothes were neatly folded. He began to dress, pulling on his trousers and smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt with a practiced hand. The quiet between them stretched, broken only by the rustle of fabric and the occasional creak of the floorboards.

As he adjusted his collar, Lucanis glanced up at Viago, his expression unreadable for a moment before he spoke. "I would love to see more of y-" He caught himself abruptly, his words faltering as if he’d said too much. He cleared his throat again, his tone shifting to something more casual, more guarded. "More of your art, if you do buy any."

Viago paused, his hand hovering over the cuff of his sleeve. He looked at Lucanis then, really looked at him, and for a moment, he saw the flicker of vulnerability in the man’s eyes, the same vulnerability that had been there earlier, when Lucanis had been undone beneath him. It was a rare glimpse, one that Viago knew Lucanis would never willingly show to just anyone.

But Viago couldn’t afford to dwell on it. He couldn’t afford to let himself be pulled into whatever this was, whatever it might become. So he nodded, his expression neutral, his voice carefully measured. "Sure. If I find anything worth showing, I’ll let you know."

Lucanis smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Good. I’ll hold you to that."

As they stood there, the already very small room felt smaller somehow. Lucanis glanced toward the door, then back at Viago, as if unsure of how to navigate the awkwardness of leaving.

"Well," Lucanis began, his tone overly casual as he gestured toward the door. "I should probably... Let you get back to your… cleaning." The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were trying to lighten the mood but couldn’t quite manage it.

Viago nodded, his expression unreadable. "Right. Of course."

Lucanis hesitated for a moment, as if waiting for something, an invitation to stay, perhaps, or a sign that Viago felt even a fraction of the tension that he did. But Viago remained silent, his posture stiff, his gaze fixed on a point just past Lucanis’ shoulder.

Finally, Lucanis let out a quiet breath and stepped toward the door. "Gracias for… well, you know." He gestured vaguely, his words trailing off as he reached for the doorknob.

Viago’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face. "Anytime," he said, though the word felt hollow even as he said it.

Lucanis paused, his hand on the door, and glanced back at Viago one last time.

"Take care, Viago," he said softly.

Viago stood there, looking at the door.

Perhaps he’d been too detached. Too cold.

But what else could he have done? He couldn’t afford to give Lucanis any ideas that this was anything more than a dalliance. He had his plan, his goals, his ambition, nothing could deter him from that. Not even the flicker of something he couldn’t name, the warmth of Lucanis’ body against his, the way the man had looked at him with those sharp, knowing eyes.

No, this was just a moment. A fleeting thing.

Viago straightened, his jaw tightening as he turned away from the door. He couldn’t afford to falter, not now. Not when he was so close to proving himself in Crow training. Not when his father’s shadow loomed so large, so suffocating, over every step he took. The thought of giving that man the satisfaction of seeing Viago fail? Unthinkable. It wasn’t an option. It never had been.

He moved to the bureau, his movements sharp, deliberate. The dagger he’d taken from Lucanis was still there, hidden among the artist’s drawings. He pulled it out, the weight of it familiar in his hand. A trophy. A reminder. A step forward in his meticulous plan.

He strode confidently toward a rack of finely tailored coats he kept by his main door, his fingers brushing over the luxurious fabrics before settling on a striking velvet black coat adorned with subtle purple trim. The garment whispered of elegance and mystery, a perfect choice for the night’s endeavor. He slipped it on, the fabric draping his frame, and carefully tucked the dagger into an internal pocket, its weight a familiar comfort against his side.

With a final glance around the room, he moved to the window, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He opened it with a soft creak, leaving it slightly ajar on the latch, a silent promise of his return. The cool night air rushed in, carrying with it the faint hum of the city below.

In one fluid motion, he slipped out into the darkness, his movements as sleek and silent as a stalking cat. The rooftops of Treviso became his domain, a labyrinth of shadows and moonlight. He leapt across gaps with feline grace, his boots barely whispering against the tiles, and slid down clotheslines with the precision of a seasoned thief. The city sprawled beneath him, its labyrinthine streets and flickering lanterns a stark contrast to the vast, star-strewn sky above.

Seventeen minutes later - a new record - he reached Heir's building. His breath was steady, his pulse calm, as though the daring sprint across the city had been nothing more than a leisurely stroll. He paused for a moment outside her door, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, before rapping sharply on the wood.

The door creaked open just a sliver, revealing the glint of a crossbow bolt leveled directly at him. Behind it, Heir’s sharp eyes narrowed, her expression a mix of suspicion and irritation.

"Whaddya want?" she growled, her voice rough and unyielding, like gravel underfoot.

Without a word, he opened his coat, revealing the dagger nestled within. The dim light caught its intricate hilt, the craftsmanship unmistakable. He held it out to her, handle first, his gesture deliberate and almost reverent.

"A Dellamorte heirloom," he said, his voice low and steady.

Heir stared at it, her sharp eyes widening for the briefest of moments before narrowing again. Her lips parted, then twisted into a disbelieving smirk. "Ye've got to be shitting me," she finally managed, her voice a mix of incredulity and grudging admiration. "I never thought…" She trailed off, shaking her head as if to dispel the disbelief.

Then she laughed, a deep, chesty laugh that rattled with phlegm and years of hard living. It was a sound that filled the room, rough and unpolished, yet oddly infectious. Her shoulders shook, and for a moment, the tension between them dissolved into something almost resembling camaraderie.

"Fair play, de Riva," she said, her voice still tinged with amusement as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "We'll make a Master Assassin out of ye yet."

He couldn’t help it, he grinned, wide and unrestrained, the kind of grin that stretched his cheeks and bared his teeth. It was the grin of a man who had just proven something, not just to her, but to himself. And in that moment, he didn’t care how mad or reckless he looked.

Let her see it. Let her see the fire in him, the hunger to rise above the shadows and claim his place among the best.

He had proven his worth now. Passed the impassable roadblock of a test. He had seduced a Dellamorte, and gotten away with it.

For now.

It was a few days later, when the trouble first began.

Viago, ever the creature of habit, had just returned from his morning rounds when his sharp eyes caught sight of something unusual atop his bureau.

A small brown box, neatly wrapped and tied with a simple ribbon, sat waiting for him. Beside it, a letter rested, its edges crisp and its seal unbroken. The ribbon was a deep crimson, the color of fresh blood, and it seemed to shimmer faintly in the light. Viago’s lips twitched in a faint smirk, though his curiosity was piqued. He was not accustomed to receiving gifts, especially not ones so deliberately placed in his private quarters.

Viago reached for the stiletto he kept tucked in his boot. The blade gleamed as he carefully sliced through the brown paper, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He peeled back the wrapping with the tip of the dagger, revealing a plain wooden box beneath.

Inside the box, nestled on a bed of black velvet, lay an item shrouded in a piece of black cloth. Viago’s gloved fingers hovered over it for a moment, his sharp mind already racing with possibilities. He used the stiletto once more to lift the cloth, and as it fell away, the object tumbled into the light.

It was a dagger.

The blade was slender and deadly, its edge honed to perfection. The hilt was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, adorned with intricate filigree that seemed to dance in the light. Tiny gemstones were embedded along the grip, catching the sunlight and scattering it like stars. It was eerily similar to the one Viago had stolen from Lucanis just a few days prior, yet this one was unmistakably unique. It bore Lucanis’s signature elegance, but it was tailored to Viago’s tastes, as though the maker had known exactly what would catch his eye.

His mind raced, a whirling storm of paranoia.

He reached for the letter with gloved hands. The seal was broken with a careful flick of his thumb, and he unfolded the parchment with deliberate care.

The handwriting was bold and confident, each stroke of the pen deliberate. It was Lucanis’s hand, unmistakably so.

(***)

Dearest Viago,

Do not think for a moment that your little acquisition went unnoticed.

However, it occurred to me that you deserve something truly your own, a blade to forge new memories with, rather than simply pilfering mine. Consider this one a gift, though I warn you: it comes with the expectation of reciprocation. I’m sure you’ll think of something suitably clever.

Shall we convene at Café Pietra tonight, as is our custom? I’ve procured a new book that I think will pique your interest. It’s delightfully obscure, much like yourself, and I’d relish the opportunity to watch you feign indifference while secretly hanging on every word.

Until then, keep the dagger close. I’d hate for it to fall into the wrong hands.

Yours,

L

(***)

Viago's jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed he had been able to compose himself. Then, with a force that startled even himself, Viago let out a loud, exasperated, “¡MIERDA!”

The word echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls and shattering the stillness of the morning. Somewhere in the distance, a bird took flight, startled by the outburst. Viago glared at the letter as though it were personally responsible for his current predicament, then crumpled it in his fist.

But even as he tossed it onto the bureau, he couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Lucanis left him with no choice but to show up at Café Pietra tonight.

After all, the man had a new book. And Viago had never been able to resist a good book.