Archive of Our Own

Well, old girl, ye’ve done it again.

Rhoswen cursed under her breath as she gazed around the ornate bedchamber. It was a tower room of the highest rank, with arched ceilings that tapered to a point and a balcony that overlooked the offing. From the silk wallpaper to the polished flagstone flooring, everything her eyes landed on practically reeked of wealth. Her own bedchamber seemed a hovel in comparison, with the bedsheets alone looking as though they cost more than half the tavern’s annual income. How in the seven hells do ye manage to get yerself in these situations?

“The captain will be with you shortly.” She couldn’t recall the first mate’s name—Gordon? Geralt?—but he seemed a right bloody coward. From the moment he’d allowed her past the Seventh Sage’s back entrance, he’d refused to look her in the eyes. She could only assume that the bad blood between the Krakens and the Sirens kept him from being able to look at her without wanting to draw his sword. Then again, perhaps it was nothing more than secondhand embarrassment, humiliation at the fact that he must escort her to his captain’s private bedchamber.

Still, it ain’t as if I’m standing stark naked in the middle of the room! She crossed her arms over her chest in a way that she hoped seemed defiant. Petulance was infinitely more agreeable than allowing him to see how nervous she really was. At least, not fully naked.

“Feel free to take your ease. Help yourself to anything on the table that strikes your fancy.” Having fulfilled his orders to the letter, the first mate closed the door. She expected to hear the sound of a key turning in the iron lock, but to her surprise there was nothing beyond the crackling fire in the grate.

Suppose me pride’s the only thing keepin’ me here….

Rubbing her arms, she looked over the bedchamber with a newfound inquisitiveness. It wasn’t often that she was able to see how the other pirate captains lived. There was no reason to; the Code forbade factions from stealing one another’s rightfully purloined goods, so why waste time breaking into a room with no treasure? She had no intention of being strung up by Jacke and his little band of rogues.

A once-in-a-lifetime chance to peer into the fop’s private life… I’d be a damned fool to waste it. Roaming aimlessly about the room, she found herself perusing the various items with a scholarly appraisal. Never in her life had she laid eyes on such finery, bits and bobbles littered over every available surface in a sort of pristine disorder, dazzling her untrained eyes in ways that the markets of Limsa could never hope to replicate.

There were large tapestries draped over the walls, clothed dyed in colors she would never have believed possible. Some were embellished with vibrant patterns, while others showcased scenes entirely unfamiliar to her. One of the largest tapestries depicted a representation of the elemental wheel—the same found in infirmaries and apothecaries across Eorzea. The elements glowed faintly in the firelight, their threads enhanced by aetherial energy. Above the mantle, a fancy chronometer kept the time; a small, inverted Rhoswen stared back at her from its whirling metal pendulum.   

Back at the tavern, the furniture in her own bedchamber was practical and hard-wearing. If it was not made to last a decade or longer, she didn’t bother with making the purchase. This furniture, on the other hand, was clearly made to be admired. Bulky, lavish, expensive. Gaudy, she scoffed, swallowing back her envy before it could properly take root.

An enormous bookcase on the far wall beckoned to her. Rhoswen quickly crept over to snoop, sparing a cautious glance at the chronometer. The tomes within were arranged in meticulous order, their spines flush with the polished glass doors that safely housed them. Rising onto the balls of her feet, she read over the titles on the uppermost shelf with painstaking effort. Having taught herself to read as a young deckhand, she could only make out words by sounding them aloud—a bothersome and, quite frankly, embarrassing habit. The last thing she needed was Carvallain walking in to find her whispering to herself. He already thought her a live fuse; no need to add insanity into the mix.  

After investigating two shelves of titles, Rhoswen found that her archrival had a diverse selection of tomes ranging from seafaring navigation and astrology to The Gathered Myths of Coerthas. She did not dare open the bookcase for further exploration, fearing that something might accidentally break. While the Missing Member wasn’t necessarily bankrupt, it was clear that the illustrious piece of furniture cost far more than she was willing to pay in damages.   

An elaborately carved desk in front of the bedchamber’s lone window seemed to serve as Carvallain’s toilette. Shaving implements, combs, and all manner of vials and philters were arranged in front of a large mirror. Amidst loose sheaves of parchment and more books, Rhoswen spied a woman’s portrait in miniature. Avidly curious, she couldn’t help but pick it up for a closer look. A beautiful Elezen woman with dark eyes and a curved cupid’s bow stared back at her, the tips of her pointed ears visible through thick curls.

Who was she? Not a relative, surely. Carvallain claimed to be the orphaned son of traveling fortune tellers. Judging by her outfit alone, the woman in the portrait was a lady of rank. Rhoswen pursed her lips, turning the miniature onto its back to examine the painter’s mark. There was no signature, only an odd bell-shaped crest stamped in the lower corner. The sight of the crest sparked something in her mind, a half-forgotten memory that had long ago been discarded.

Where have I seen that before? After a moment’s pondering, she still didn’t have the answer. Shrugging, she placed the miniature back on the desk, making sure it was in the same position as she’d found it. For all she knew, it was some favored lover from his past.

On a large circular table before the hearth, an expansive spread had been laid out in anticipation of the captain’s arrival. Rhoswen’s mouth watered at the sight of so much food, a hollow pit in her stomach reminding her that breakfast was long past. Still, she refused to touch the gilded plates on principle. What if the Krakens had poisoned the lot and were waiting on her to take the first bite? A cowardly move, of course, but she’d seen many a man’s crew driven to desperation over her three-odd decades of life. Besides, there were only a handful of dishes that she recognized.

Turning back to the window, she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror. The sight was enough to catch her off-guard. Sunlight streaming through the balcony’s double doors softened the angle of her cheekbones, highlighting the copper streaks in her blonde hair. Her eyes, normally the frothy gray of storm-tossed seas, were something closer to graphite. But the strangest—and perhaps most striking—difference was the way her skin seemed to glow thanks to the blue robe she’d been given upon her arrival.

In truth, “robe” was probably not the right word to use, but it was the only one she knew to equate with the billowing swathes of fabric. It was much too large for her, with sleeves gathering at the elbows and the hem trailing on the floor behind her as she walked. She was not fond of blue by any stretch of imagination, but even she had to admit that the color was stunning. It was the same dark, shimmering hues of the deepest ocean, embroidered with swirling white patterns reminiscent of seafoam. The fabric was smooth and cool against her bare skin, falling in rippling patterns no matter which way she turned. Without a doubt, this was the famed silk of the Far East.

Positioning herself so that her spine faced the mirror, Rhoswen let the fabric slip from her shoulders to pool at her waist. She had never been lucky enough to travel to the Far East herself, but she’d read some of the more salacious stories of brothels and teahouses printed in the Harbor Herald. While she doubted their authenticity—especially those stories penned by “prominent correspondents” who neglected to give their names—the accompanying images of bare-shouldered courtesans had stuck fast in her memory. Their elegance and grace were a far cry from the flirty, feisty streetwalkers that roamed the piers to ply their trade. 

Her curiosity abated, she turned to look with some trepidation at the room’s most prominent feature: the bed. It was enormous by any measure, wide enough to easily fit half her crew and nearly as long. On all four corners, wooden beams thicker than her legs stretched towards the ceiling. Heavy damask bedcurtains were parted to show the thick coverlet drawn back to air the bed.

Unable to stop herself, she crept over and ran her fingers over the tightly woven fabric. Expecting more silk, she was surprised to find both the sheets and the coverlet were made from sinfully soft wool. It seemed overkill for Vylbrand’s balmy climate, but she could easily envision herself snuggling deep into the thick blankets on a cool morning. 

Glancing again at the chronometer, Rhoswen noted with sinking despair that there were still five more minutes before her “time” officially began. Clearly her host had not planned to show his ugly face before the appointed time, which meant she was left with nothing to do except stand around and wonder just what he had in store for her.

“Not bloody likely,” she grumbled, tucking the robe’s excess fabric around her waist before tipping herself onto the mattress with all the grace of a small child clambering into their sire’s bed. Immediately she found herself sinking into the soft featherdown like a stone in water, floundering before she managed to pull herself into a sort of recline against the carved headboard. She took a moment to arrange herself into a less compromising position, tucking her feet against her side and smoothing back her unruly hair.

Should’ve never won that swivvin’ bet, the cocky bastard. Yet won he had, and here she was, fulfilling her end of the bargain.  

A lone bell of your time, he’d said, grinning so that the tips of his pointed canines were just visible. Anything I desire, you do without argument… within reason, of course. I would not dare stoop low enough to force a lady’s hand—though the term is applied rather loosely to you, my dear Rhoswen—

She had expected humiliation, degradation, even some old-fashioned gloating thrown into the mix. Instead, she’d been summoned to the Seventh Sage, stripped to her nethers, and handed a silk robe.

Whatever he’s doing, he’s going about it all wrong. Rhoswen was not the type of woman to blush or act coy. If he wanted that sort of thing, he’d have more luck searching the whorehouse for a streetwalker that enjoyed playacting the coquette. That being said… why else would he want her in her nameday suit, if not for a quick fuck?

Hmph! Ridiculous, she admonished herself, pulling one of the many decorative pillows into her lap and squeezing with all her might. After all, it’s Carvallain we’re talkin’ about. He’d probably lose the contents of his stomach if he so much as caught a glimpse of my left tit.  

Any other time, she would have immediately denied that sort of request. This was Limsa Lominsa, after all: you’d be a damn fool to trust anyone farther than you could throw them, and she prided herself on having a decent arm. But for all the scathing insults and superior attitude, Carvallain was… surprisingly gallant. Not that she trusted him either, mind. It was simply that she did not feel unsafe around him. There was no lecherous malice, no sense of impending doom.

Still, she hadn’t expected to find herself in the man’s bedchamber.

At the time, when she had accepted his conditions, the thought of sexual favors had not occurred to her. It had been the farthest thing from her mind, in fact. She was no stranger to the art of casual fucking, but a small part of her quailed at the thought of exchanging her body for a price… even if it was only a bet. She could not bring herself to forget her tumultuous youth, nor the many threats of the man who sired her. How many nights had he railed in a drunken rage about forcing her to earn her keep? How many times had he threatened to sell her to the highest bidder in order to pay his debts at the alehouse?

Carvallain claimed that he would not force her hand, and she was no longer a cowering little mouse afraid of her own shadow. She could always fly into a fury and storm out of the room the moment he tried to touch her. But what would be the price of her rejection? Would he come up with something far worse in comparison?   

He wouldn’t do that. Rhoswen squeezed the pillow, resting her chin on its fringed edge. At least, I don’t think he would. Even if it was sex he was after… well, would that be so terrible? She couldn’t deny her attraction to the bastard. He was an expert at driving her to the brink of madness with his pompous antics, only to set her heart racing with one of his charming smiles. And the way he looked at her sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t paying attention… the way his eyes searched her face as if he actually cared—

She shook her head quickly before muffling a scream into the pillow’s plush surface.

If he’s true to his word… if it’s within reason…. Before she could ponder the matter further, the door opened and Carvallain walked in.

Carvallain as she’d never seen him before. 

Clearly he had come straight from the baths, damp hair clinging to his ears and neck. He wore a robe similar to the one she’d been given: sea green, sun-kissed tropical waters embellished with gold. It was a tailored fit, hanging sleeves and a flared hem that defined his lean waist. He wore no shirt, his bare torso crisscrossed with scars. Unbidden, her eyes fell from the defined ridges of his collarbone to the smooth expanse of his stomach, with its trail of coarse red hair disappearing into the waistband of his gaskins.

Matron’s merciful tits…. Rhoswen averted her eyes just as quickly, feeling strangely hot despite her current lack of clothing. Carvallain spared her only a passing glance, crossing the room and pouring himself a glass of wine from a decanter on the table. Then he seized the velvet-lined chair at his toilette, dragging it across the flagstone with one hand. She watched as he positioned himself in front of the bed, close enough that he could have easily touched the hem of her robe where it lay draped in folds across the mattress.

He seemed the very picture of royal ease, legs crossed at the knee and weight leaned onto one elbow. The wine swirled languidly in the glass as he looked her over, eyes tracing the shape of her curves from head to toe in one graceful sweep. They lingered a moment on the pillow in her lap; she resisted the urge to throw it at him, instead letting it fall to the side as she crossed her arms. At that very moment, the chronometer chimed fourteenth bell.

“W-Well?” She swallowed tightly, attempting to mask her trepidation with brazen smugness. “Time’s tickin’ down fast. What is it ye want from me?” He did not immediately respond, taking a leisurely sip and allowing the flavor to spread over his tongue.

“Anything within reason.” Collected. Measured. It was as if he’d practiced it beforehand. Lifting his eyes to hers, he peered at her through long, beautiful lashes. “I promised as much, and I am very much a man of my word. If at any time I suggest something that lies beyond your realm of comfort, feel free to reject it at once. There is no danger of consequence.”

“As for the rest….” He tasted the wine again, licking his lips with a voracious smile. “Whatever I desire—that was our agreement, was it not?”

“Tch.” Rhoswen’s hands balled into fists inside the silk sleeves, nails digging into the heels of her palms. “Aye, aye. Whatever you desire. But ye’d best be quick about it!” Briefly, she wondered just where she might draw the line. No matter how insignificant it seemed, any task he chose for her was bound to pluck pride. She was unused to bending her head for anyone—especially when that person was her rival in arms. But she had lost a bet, fair and square, and this was her due penance.

Countless scenarios flooded her mind, each more damning than the last. Would she be forced to feed him from the table while he lounged in his chair? Dance like a court jester for his amusement? Dress in a humiliating outfit? Bow to him on bended knee? Both knees? Or kneeling between his thighs, staring up at his smug face while she—

“Whatever it is, it can’t leave this room.” The words were spoken before she could think about them. “This is between us, n’ no one else. Got it?”

“I wholeheartedly agree, my dear. In fact, I believe I’d find myself hard-pressed to allow anyone else the privilege of seeing you like this.”

Privilege? She froze as his eyes swept over her again, heart pounding in her ears.

“I had anticipated ahead of time that it would be easier if I lent you one of my banyans, but I never expected it to look so…” He trailed off with a smile, gazing over the rim of his wineglass at the exposed triangle of flesh beneath her throat.

“One o’ yer whats?” she huffed, fidgeting restlessly with the hem just beneath her collarbone. Out of all the questions running through her mind, it was the only one with an answer she trusted.

“Banyan. The first inhabitants of Coerthas called them robes de chambre,” Carvallain patiently explained, “although that has admittedly fallen out of use in recent times. Regardless of what they’re called, Ishgardian noblemen continue to wear them when relaxing in the comfort of one’s home. Seeing the appeal, I was quick to adopt the practice.”

“Is that so?” she deadpanned. “In case ye haven’t noticed, I’m a mite smaller than the average long-eared fop. It ain’t the easiest thing in the world to wear.”  

“Are you not comfortable?” His brows arched in mild surprise. “If that’s the case, you’re more than welcome to remove it.”

“To remove—!” she choked, heat rushing to her cheeks. The fact that she was blushing only served to make her angry, which in turn made her blush all the more. A cruel, vicious circle, one that Carvallain was bound to notice… and possibly exploit. “If yer plan is to see me in me nameday suit, then just say so! Ye already lost five minutes, sittin’ there with yer feet propped up like a bleedin’ prince. Whatever it is ye want from me, hurry up n’ spit it out!”

“Hmm.” Carvallain turned to the balcony doors. He stared off into the distance, fingertips tapping his chin as he thought. “Shall I be frank?”

“How many times do I have to repeat meself?” she snapped. “Stop wastin’ time! Or would ye rather me take a knife from the table n’ carve ye a new set o’ gills?”

“Such vigor!” He waved away the threat with a flourish. “Save such… passionate outbursts for the main event.”

“Maybe I would, if ye saw fit to tell me just what it is I’m meant to be doin’!”

“Very well.” He placed the wineglass on the broad arm of the chair, steepling his long fingers as the teasing smile slipped from his face. “I want you to touch yourself.”

“T-To what?!” Rhoswen was too stunned to be angry, voice cracking on a squeak as her haughty façade momentarily slipped.

Joking… he has to be joking. Or maybe I misunderstood him, she assured herself with a confidence she didn’t quite feel. The nervous knot in her gut slowly unfurled into a churning mess as she turned the words over in her mind. Surely this was some new form of jest. He wouldn’t really go so far as to ask her for that… would he?

“Touch yourself,” he repeated calmly, tilting his head to the side as he waited. If he noticed her obvious discomfort, he clearly saw no reason to draw attention to it.

“H-How?” she finally managed, choking on the word. Carvallain’s mouth fell open, and for a moment she feared he might slip from the chair in his shock. He recovered quickly enough, reaching for the glass and taking a hasty gulp before clearing his throat with a well-practiced cough.

“What do you mean, how?” he asked, incredulous. “Do you mean to say that you’ve never… pleasured yourself? Not once?”

“O’ course I have, fool!” Rhoswen was suddenly grateful for the oversized banyan, slipping down to partially conceal her burning face in its endless folds of silk. “I just don’t see why ye’d want to watch that… n’ with me, o’ all people—”

“Does it matter?” he interrupted. “You asked what it was that I wanted, and now I’ve told you. All that’s left is for you to accept or refuse. The choice is yours.”

“But…!” Twelve be damned, what was she supposed to say?! Everything fibre of her being knew that she should immediately refuse his offer. She ought to refuse it, at least. And yet, when she opened her mouth, the only thing able to escape around the lump in her throat was a muttered, “N’ I suppose ye plan on having a grand laugh when it’s over, aye?”

“Heavens, no!” He seemed offended at the very idea. “No mockery, no scathing commentary. I swear it on my honor as a privateer and a gentleman. I merely wish to… observe.”

“That’s— But— Oil, then…” she huffed. “Or do ye expect me to make do with me own spit?”

“Ah, of course.” Carvallain stood, handing her the wineglass without ceremony. “One moment.” He walked to the desk, his back to her as he bent to sort through the vials at his toilette. The moment she was hidden from view, Rhoswen took a deep draught from the side of the glass his lips had not touched. While it didn’t pack the same acrid punch as a mouthful of Sour Red, the familiar bite of brandewine served to steady her fluttering nerves. She wiped away the faint lipstick mark with the pad of her thumb, willing her racing heartbeat to slow.

What’re ye doin’?! Are ye out o’ yer head?! Rhoswen was not particularly shy about her body, nor the act itself. But of all the things he might have asked her for, all the confessions he might have wrenched from her unwilling hands… why this? Why now? A quick tumble in the sheets was one thing—hells, it was preferable to this! At least then they both would be somewhat preoccupied with the task at hand. But for him to sit there and watch—

“Come here.” He motioned her to the edge of the mattress, rolling his eyes when she refused to come any closer than arm’s length. Taking her free hand in his own, long fingers engulfing hers entirely, he poured a generous amount of oil from one of the crystal vials. It pooled in her upturned palm, cool and viscous; a cloying, peppery fragrance tickled her nose. Carvallain capped the vial with his thumb, taking back the wineglass and returning to his chair.

“That scent is clove oil,” he explained, seeing her perplexed expression. “A Radz-at-Han staple.”

“I don’t recall askin’.” She rubbed the oil between her fingers, testing its slickness before meeting his questioning gaze with a scowl. “Let’s get this over with.”

“As you like.” He leaned back in the chair, glass dangling from his fingers as he set his eyes on her.

Ugh. That arrogant prick. At that very moment, a sneaky, downright dastardly idea crept into her mind. It took every onze of willpower she possessed not to leer like a voidsent at the thought. I ought not give him an ilm, she decided, settling into a comfortable position on the mattress. He said to touch meself, but he never said anythin’ about putting on a show.

Adjusting the banyan so that it sat snugly on her shoulders, Rhoswen slipped her oil-slickened fingers inside without hesitation. There was no opportunity for him to peek, nothing to see beyond the rippling fabric and her own triumphant smirk. She half-expected him to demand that she open the banyan and allow him to take his fill. To her surprise, he made no objection to her trickery.  

Hmph, that’s no fun. Perhaps he was being a gentleman, placing her comfort above his own needs. More likely he was content to bide his time, waiting to see what she would do next. His pale eyes never faltered, a cryptic smile lifting one side of his mouth as he watched.

Parting her clenched thighs, she slipped her hand between her legs and stroked along her folds. Rather than being aroused, she found that her touch was… uncomfortably clammy, hampered by the slow warming oil. It seemed as though exhibitionism—willing or not—wasn’t much of a turn on. The sight of a shirtless Carvallain did admittedly send sparks of something through her veins, but that was not enough to kindle desire. She frowned, more from concentration than annoyance.

C’mon… something, anything—! Briefly she considered faking a reaction, but had serious doubts concerning her own theatric abilities. She had never felt the need to put on a performance in bed; her reactions, if any, were always genuine. Perhaps she ought to have practiced more…. Her eyebrows scrunched with the effort, willing her silent body to respond, but it was no use. 

“Do you always make that expression when you pleasure yourself?” Carvallain laughed softly, the sound jolting her from her thoughts. “You look as though you’re solving mental arithmetic.”

“Shut yer trap.” She glared at him. “Does it matter what I look like?”

“I’d be a liar if I said I’d never imagined it.” The admission, punctuated by a sip of wine, set her heart to racing. Her skin prickled with phantom heat, raising the hair on her arms as her fingertips grazed her clit.

“W-Why would ye do that?” she managed, choking on her disbelief. Carvallain smiled, rolling his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. As though it were commonplace for a man to fantasize about his hated rival, or even to admit as much to her while she fucked herself on his sheets. “Tell me,” she demanded uneasily. “Tell me w-what ye imagined.”    

“Mm… no.”

Two can play at that game. Tearing her eyes away, Rhoswen fixed her gaze on the rug beneath his boots. If he refused to indulge her, she would simply have to ignore him. Ignore him, and definitely not imagine him stroking himself to the thought of her. There was no room in her imagination for the thought of him grinding against the mattress, or thrusting into one of those stupid decorative pillows, pretending it was her… horny, desperate for friction, mumbling her name as he spilled all over his fancy silk banyans without a care in the world—

She shivered, lips pressed tightly together to prevent any traitorous sounds from escaping her throat. Her fingers circled her most sensitive areas, light and playful, a far cry from the heavy pressure she needed in order to become properly aroused. There was no reason why she was even bothering to drag it out—only that she was. But gods, it felt divine to rock up into her own touch, the shifting silk teasing her nipples into hardened peaks.

How long had it been since she’d savored this feeling? How many nights had she ignored her own needs, falling asleep instead of seeking relief? It was too common these days to treat pleasure as an afterthought. She touched herself not for enjoyment, but for stress relief. And while she did get aroused from arguing with him, she was secretly worried of what might happen should she give into the temptation afterwards. That was probably the sort of woman he thought her to be, unable to climax if it wasn’t accompanied by grating sneers or shouted accusations. But she wanted softness too— at least sometimes. And connection. And maybe even something more….

Her legs fell open beneath the silk as she angled her hips even higher, resting her weight on her free hand as a soft sigh eased its way into her throat. The movement caused the banyan to slip from her shoulder, pooling at her elbow and exposing the swell of her breast. She heard his answering hiss, but didn’t bother pausing long enough to push it back into place. If he caught a glimpse of her tits, so much the better. In fact, he ought to be grateful for the experience; others wished they were so lucky.

Movement from the chair had her lifting her eyes from the rug despite her better judgment. Carvallain sat straight as a rod, one hand clutching the wineglass while the other gripped the padded arm of his chair. Their eyes met over the mattress and Rhoswen faltered, taken aback at the sight of the emotion blazing beneath his creased brows. Her hand stilled, the heel of her palm a steady, delicious pressure against her soaked folds.

“Go on,” he demanded, swallowing thickly. His chest heaved with each breath. “Don’t stop.” Several responses ran through her mind at the command, each more damning—and enjoyable—than the last. She could, of course, obey without a fight. But where was the fun in that? So long as she fulfilled her orders to the letter, there was no rule stating she couldn’t make his life miserable in the process. This was Carvallain, after all.

Rhoswen let her gaze fall pointedly, making sure he noted just how slowly her eyes trailed over his shirtless form. She mapped each scar along his lean ribcage, down the raised outline of his abdomen, all the way to where his hips disappeared into his waistline. They lingered on the obvious tent in his trousers, a smirk crossing her face.

“That looks uncomfortable,” she teased, finally picking back up where she’d left off. “Maybe ye ought to do somethin’ about it.” Her fingers lazily circled her clit as she spoke, with only the slightest hitch in her voice to suggest that she was affected at all. The banyan slipped a little more, barely clinging to the faint idea of modesty; her skin pebbled in the open air, no longer protected by the smooth, slippery fabric. Still, she was beyond caring at this point. Let him get an eyeful, maybe it’d do him some good. “Don’t tell me a fancy gent like yerself is gettin’ all hot n’ bothered at the sight of an unrefined woman.” 

“More than you know.” His voice curled around her limbs, at once both warm and coaxing. For a moment she wished that he would give in and touch himself. How hard was he, beneath that dark fabric? What would it take for him to reach down and ease the building tension? The thought of watching as he palmed himself through his trousers made her gasp aloud, fire coiling in her lower stomach.

She knew that her fingers were nowhere near long enough to reach that coveted spot deep within her, but she had to try. It was far too dangerous to imagine alternatives, especially when he was sitting so close, those long, elegant fingers gripping the wineglass hard enough to shatter. To her shock her fingers slipped inside easily, effortlessly, a delicious stretch without the telltale burn of moving too fast.

What in the—? How could she possibly be this wet already? Normally it took twice as long, if not longer, to get herself adequately prepared. All this from nothing more than foreplay and a little banter? How humiliating. But there was no way to pretend that his precious foreign oils were solely to blame; the sound alone was practically obscene as she fucked herself, teeth biting into her lower lip.

“Gods, I can hear you—” he groaned, running a hand through his loose hair. She opened her mouth, caught between a smartass retort and something far more vulnerable, but he continued without notice. “Do you know how sensitive my ears are?” he asked, his voice barely audible. “They say an Elezen can hear a fieldmouse at five malms. I don’t know about that, but….” He licked his lips. “Every sound you make, every noise you try to stifle… I can hear them. They’re all for me.”

“Y-You—”

“I can hear the sound of your heart in your throat,” he growled, a desperate sound from the man normally so keen on refinement. It was enough to make the sweat break out on her skin, body straining into her touch as she pushed her fingers as far as they would go, knuckles grazing her dewy curls.

“Wh-Who cares about yer godsdamned ears when—fuck—”

“Tch! Damn it all—” Carvallain drained the wineglass, tossing it carelessly to the rug. She followed its arc with her eyes, watching the last dregs of wine pool in its curved side as it rolled to a stop beneath the table. Pale red in the firelight, the echo of its taste on her tongue. Before she could even think to voice her confusion he’d risen from his chair, falling to his knees before the bed and yanking her towards the edge of the mattress with two handfuls of silk fabric.

“I had every intention of keeping my hands to myself,” he mused, his voice dark and smooth in a way she’d never heard from him before. In that moment, he seemed the very picture of a ruthless privateer… the type of man who’d claim his rightful due come hells or high water. The transformation was startling; even more startling was the fact that she’d allowed him to palm her thighs without a single cry of protest.

“That being said, I find myself eager for a taste of victory’s spoils.” Stunned, she watched with wide eyes as he carefully parted the banyan’s folds to expose her fully. The sleeves slipped down her arms with a quiet whisper of silk, baring her from shoulders to hips. She pressed her thighs together, trapping his inquisitive fingers between them as her tongue fought the words rattling about in her skull.

“Wh… What are ye….”

“You’re not frightened of me, are you?” He smiled up at her, all false courtesy and affable charm. “Kneeling before you as I am?”

“No….”

“Then let me taste you.” Despite the thinly veiled command, he made no further effort to wrench apart her thighs. Instead he leaned into her, resting his weight on his elbows as he awaited her response.

“Where?”

“Where?” he parroted, brows arching in puzzled amusement. “Where what?”

“Where were ye plannin’ to stick that silver tongue o’ yers?”

“Mm….” He grinned. “I thought that would be obvious, my dear. However—” He freed his fingers from the trap of her thighs, both hands grabbing her by the waist and dragging her even closer. “I suppose I don’t mind playing the cartographer, just this once.” Bending his head, he kissed a trail down the valley between her breasts before licking a long stripe back up the center, his tongue flicking at a shallow scar on her sternum. Her heart skipped a beat, thrumming almost painfully against her ribs.

“I heard that, too.” Carvallain raised his eyes to hers, licking his lips with a playful wink. “This isn’t too much for you, is it? It’s my understanding that women past their prime often experience heart trouble.” 

“Shut up.” Rhoswen wiped her hand on the quilt behind her, fingers tacky with oil and her own slick. Propping her weight on her free hand, she watched with half-lidded eyes as he mouthed over the softest parts of her stomach. No scar, no blemish escaped his careful scrutiny, fingers dancing over her hips while he worshipped her with lips and teeth and tongue. A shudder ran through her as he circled her navel, spiraling down to gently bite the sensitive skin just above her mound. Sinking down onto one elbow, she carded her fingers into his soft hair and tugged to get his attention.

“Yer on a time limit,” she reminded him, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Don’t forget.”

“More’s the pity,” he murmured, his breath warm against her stomach. “But you’re right: the day grows short, and I’ve yet to have a taste….” Strong hands guided her legs over his shoulders, rubbing soothing circles on her inner thighs before parting her folds. For a moment he did nothing but stare, as though admiring the sight before him, or perhaps committing it to memory. “You don’t mind, do you?” He offered only a second’s reprieve, barely long enough for her mind to catch up with the rest of her body, before burying his head between her thighs.

Her elbow came out from underneath her and Rhoswen hit the mattress with a yelp, eyes widening as he parted her folds with one hard lick. Her thoughts stopped in their tracks, the hand in his hair tightening until he hissed with pain. The vibration sent a jolt through her entire body, hips lifting to push closer to the source of her pleasure. Practically oozing pride at her body’s reaction, he wasted no time in pinning her hips to the bed before proceeding to devour her without a shred of mercy. Sloppy, wet, carnal kisses over every last ilm of exposed flesh, his fingers spreading her open as he worked.

“Gods damn—that—oh—” He didn’t bother with a reply, humming his wordless approval as he swirled his tongue over her clit. Her head hit the mattress and she didn’t even care, one hand still tangled in his thick locks while the other clutched at the quilt, silk sliding against her hips and her shoulders. It felt sinful and sensual and she spread her legs wider, welcoming it all without bothering about the whos and the whys.

“Look at me, harpy.” There was a sharp pain as he bit a lasting bruise on her inner thigh, nuzzling the mottled skin before soothing it with a sweet kiss. Her eyes flew open—when had they closed?—and she lifted her head until she could see him staring back at her. Dark eyes filled to overflowing with desire, cold grin made even wetter by the way his lips and chin glistened in the waning sunlight.

“What?!” she whined, too keyed up and impatient to bother with keeping up the tough girl façade.  

“I want my name on your lips when you come.” Even with the inferno sparking beneath her skin, she still clung to the frayed edges of her conceit. It took a moment to find her voice, chest heaving with want of air.

“Dream on.” He seemed to expect no less, her sharp tongue earning her a matching bruise on the other thigh. Before she could open her mouth to voice a single complaint, he thrust two fingers into her and curled so that the very stars in the heavens seemed to dazzle her vision. Her heels dug into his spine and she cursed aloud, the word ending on a squeal as his fingers lightly pinched her clit.

Damn him! Was this his plan all along? Tease her until she ached for release and then withhold it from her on the very cusp of her unraveling? She clenched her jaw, biting back the pleas that threatened to spill unchecked from her lips. Oughta yank the hair outta his pretty little head, she scowled, tugging harder on the copper strands trapped in her fist.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, a low purr that seemed to curl around her in the feverish heat. She blinked back at him in utter confusion, her dazed mind struggling to keep up with his own. Surely he didn’t mean her, did he? She was more used to the common insults; there was no room in her for compliments, for sweet nothings that seemed so right when coming from him. “You seem the very picture of a countess, reclined in her boudoir.”

“Stop talkin’ nonsense.” Teeth grazed her lower stomach in answer, dragging lightly over her skin. “I ain’t no—!” He cut her off without a word, stroking over her inner walls with a firm touch. “Carv—” she began, only to bite her lip when she realized just how close she was to giving him exactly what he wanted.

“Hmm?” He grinned in delight at the way her thighs twitched with every flick of his wrist. “Did you say something?” His free hand pinned her to the bed as he began a slow, steady rhythm that seemed apt to drive her mad. 

“That’s enough!” she panted, nearly whimpering with overstimulation. “That—no more—”

“No more?” Carvallain withdrew his hand at once, leaving her empty and aching, desperate for that final push over the edge. She was back on her elbows before she knew it, reaching for him with a helpless cry.

“Don’t stop!”

“No more? Don’t stop?” he laughed, somehow gentle in his teasing. “Well, which is it?” Taking her wrists, he guided her hands back to his hair. Rhoswen ran her fingers through the messy locks, scratching at his scalp in a manner she hoped would be placating. She could play nice, so long as he gave her what she wanted in return….

“You tire of our little game, is that it?” She nodded, shuddering as he brushed his knuckles against her core with soothing little strokes. “I see….” Again that cold, calculating smile. “Then I take it you’ve rethought your position? You intend to follow my command and say my name?”

“Are ye serious?!” she whined, tangling her fingers up in his hair and yanking until he grimaced. “I could kill ye right now!”

“What’s the matter?” Carvallain tilted his head in mock query, leaning his head into her touch so as to ease the pressure on his scalp. “I thought you were ready to be good for me… though perhaps you require a little more coercion.” As he spoke, his thumb drew slow, maddening circles around her clit. “If that’s the case, I’m more than happy to oblige. Ah, but remember: we are on a time limit. I’d hate to send you scurrying home unsatisfied.”

Oh, I’m gonna make sure ye regret this. So it’s a game ye want? Rhoswen relaxed her grip, falling back to the mattress with a coy smile. Ye ought to know the first rule of betting: make sure the odds are in yer favor!

She arched against him with a soft sigh, lashes fluttering as she tugged him up the mattress to join her. The illusion of surrender was enough to put him on his guard, the corners of his mouth falling as he waited for the other shoe to fall. Licking her lips, she moaned his name as sweetly as possible, tongue curling around each syllable.

The effect was instantaneous: Carvallain jolted in shock, jaw slack and eyes darkening to dangerous, stormy cobalt. He regained his composure in the span of a few blinks, leaning down until they were nose to nose.

“Do not try my patience, woman.” She caught his face in her hands, nipping playfully at his chin  before breathing his name against the seam of his lips. He fought back a full-body shiver, gripping her thigh hard enough to bruise.

“I’m only doing as ye asked, Carvallain. Ain’t this exactly what ye wanted? Don’t say I didn’t fulfill my end of the bargain, Carvall—” He surged forward with a snarl, clapping his hand over her open mouth. Blunt nails bit into the tender flesh of her cheek as he turned her to face him, his eyes blazing with barely contained fury.

“I am not a man to be trifled with!” Rhoswen mouthed his name in answer, knowing that he would be able to feel its shape against his bare palm. For a moment he seemed to be somewhat at a loss, his tongue working in his cheek. It was clear that she had no intention of backing down from the challenge. Finally he released her, his hand moving to cup her cheek instead. His thumb traced over her mouth, testing the give of her plush lower lip before sliding down the column of her neck. Her pulse fluttered against his fingers, echoing the louder thrum from her chest.

“Fine. It’s your choice.” His free hand slipped between her legs, parting her folds and slicking his fingers before slipping into her once more. Their eyes met and he leaned even closer, sharing her breath as he brought her back to the edge. Rhoswen wrapped her arms around his neck, acting on an impulse she didn’t quite understand, but wanted to follow regardless. The furrow between his brows became more prominent as he stared deeply into her eyes; some of the steel in his expression crumbled, glacial ice meeting warm ocean waters. “You’re a hateful woman.”

“Aye,” she agreed, breathless, soaking his fingers with the way she tried to grind against his hand. “N’ ye love me all the more for it.” She meant it as a joke, another lowbrow stab at his pride. But he seemed almost pensive as he thumbed swift circles against her clit, his hips serving to keep her legs spread wide.

“Fury take me,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, “but I do.”

The words had no time to sink in as her pleasure reached its peak, sparking through her body until she was alight from head to toe. Rhoswen stiffened with a choked shriek, practically clinging to him as she melted in the cradle of his arms. He swore under his breath at the sharp bite of her nails on his shoulders, though he watched with an expression that bordered on triumph. Ragged moans trailed off into halting, breathy whimpers and still his hand did not cease, easing her down from the heavens with a tenderness that belied the sneer on his lips.

“D-Damn,” she managed to croak, once the hazy fog in the brain had lifted enough to allow speech. The dry rasp to her voice made her wince, wishing for another taste of that expensive wine. “Hope ye paid her well.”

“Who?”

“The whore who taught ye how to do that.” A derisive snort was the only answer she was afforded. Carvallain stood, shoving the trousers to his knees and taking himself in hand without ceremony.

“Don’t move,” he ordered in a flat voice, altogether different from his earlier mood. Rhoswen watched through her lashes as he began to fist himself in short jerks, his wet fingers easing the friction only slightly. Compared to everything he’d just put her through, it was an astonishingly straightforward task. Though her whole body was spread open for his perusal, his eyes never once left her face, completely silent save for the occasional sharp breath hissed through his clenched teeth. 

“Oi….” She struggled to sit up, her limbs limp and boneless after her ordeal. Reaching between her legs, she scooped up some of the sticky mess and slid it down his cock, her fingers trailing over the molten skin with a sort of absent fondness. He did not encourage her, but neither did he attempt to stop her as she smoothed her palm over his shaft. She closed her eyes, feeling the way it pulsed beneath her fingertips, tracing the coarse red curls at its base. The rapid tempo of his hand slowed, stopping entirely when she ran her index finger over the bead of fluid at the tip. She popped it into her mouth, listening to his answering groan as she let the salty flavor die on her tongue.

“Why can’t you follow even the simplest commands?” he managed, squeezing himself with a wince. She shook her head, patting the mattress beside her with a smile.

“C’mere.”

“Insufferable,” he sighed, weary and aroused. Nevertheless, he collapsed obediently beside her on the bed, turning to face her with a grunt.

“Did ye expect anything less?” Their faces were ilms apart, his hips hanging from the mattress and legs braced against the floorboards. The difference in their heights meant it was much harder to reach his cock without sitting up. Instead, she took it upon herself to smooth the sweat-damp hair from his ears, tracing them to their pointed tips and tugging just to see what he’d say.

To her surprise he didn’t swat her hand away, nor did he glare at her for daring to touch him. Rather, he buried his face against her neck with a broken gasp, his hand working tirelessly between them as he sought his own pleasure. She drew even closer, kissing the shell of his ear with a smile.

“Carvallain….” This time she really meant it, nosing at his cheek until he turned to look at her. The glance they shared was heated, poignant in the moment. His breath tickled her face, the corners of his eyes crinkling with some private amusement. How could it be possible that this was somehow more intimate than having his fingers inside of her? Why, when he was pleasuring himself and looking smugger than ever about it, did her heart choose now—of all times!—to melt into a soggy lump? She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his, tasting his deep groan.

“I’m going to—” She nodded, pressing flush to him, accepting all that he would give. He kissed her deeply as he came, seed dribbling over his knuckles to stain the woolen sheets between them. She tasted her name on his tongue, licking the last syllables from his mouth as he fell to the bed with a sigh.

It seemed they remained that way for an eternity, foreheads pressed together, hesitant kisses, the occasional murmur as their breathing slowed. She stared at him, mapping his features and wondering if they had ever been this close to one another before. Normally they were at shouting distance, either on their respective ships or on opposite sides of the Aftcastle plaza. A respectable distance.

A safe distance.

But now they were close enough that Rhoswen could count each long eyelash, spot the thin hairs where his shaped brows were starting to grow in, admire the flecks of silver framing his pupils. The thin scar on his cheek drew her attention to his pointed ears with their sparkling adornments. Unbidden, unthinking, she reached out to trace the edge of the clasp with the pad of her thumb. The metal was cool beneath her touch, damp from either the baths or his sweat.

“Ye don’t take ‘em off?” she murmured, barely aware that she was voicing her question aloud. He shook his head, cheek grazing her fingertips.

“They are a rite of passage for Ish—for Elezens. Once you choose to wear them, there are very few acceptable reasons to remove them.” He grinned. “I’d take one off and let you have a closer look, but then I’d have to marry you.”

“Tch! I never heard o’ such a rule.”

“My dear, Limsa is sadly bereft of the elegance and culture which so attracts my kind. I do what I can to remedy the matter, but I am only one man in the end. It’s not my fault that you remain ignorant of our customs.”

Eventually the air seemed a tad too cool for comfort, stirring her just enough to tuck the ends of the banyan around her waist.

“Bloody waste of a bet,” she pointed out, watching the last of the stain seep into the blanket at her hip. Carvallain didn’t bother to open his eyes, though she knew by the set of his mouth that he wasn’t asleep.

“It’s not up to you to decide that,” he finally responded.

“Hmph! Well. I hope yer satisfied, at any rate.” A metallic whir filled the room as the chronometer struck fifteenth bell. “Time’s up.”

“Mm.” He rolled onto his back, stretching his arms above his head. With his hair mussed, bangs sticking out at odd angles and a contented smile on his lips, he looked almost boyish. Why are men like this after a good fuck? she wondered to herself, rising onto wobbly legs. The sight was almost enough to make her want to stay awhile….

Almost, but not quite.

“Your clothing should be where you left it,” Carvallain murmured sleepily. “I presume you can see yourself out?”

“See myself out?” She slapped at his thigh, dancing away before he could return the playful swipe. “Some gentleman! Can’t even bother to see a lady to the door.”

“I hope you’re not counting yourself amongst their company.” He lifted his head just enough to consider her, his gaze lingering on the deep vee created by the loosely-held folds of silk. “If I rise from this bed,” he warned, “I might not allow you to leave.” The threat hung heavy between them, words laden with something she’d rather not address at the moment. At least not yet, with her thighs sticky and a strange ache in her breast.

Rhoswen stared at him a moment longer than was comfortable, even after his head had fallen back to the mattress. A small part of her was glad that his expressive eyes were hidden behind those long eyelashes; she was frightened of what she might see there… and even more frightened of her own response.     

N’ anyroad, she assured herself as she hurried from the room, ‘twas only a bet. That thought made it much easier to strut downstairs with her head held high, scattering the Krakens and all but demanding her clothes from that coward of a first mate. To go home with a smile, confident in her ability to resist that man and his damnable charms. To pretend that, for a single moment of time, caught in a bell jar of their own making…

She hadn’t felt something more.