#CarvRhos | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sheepwithspecs · 1 year

Text

First Light

|| FFXIV || Rated T ||

Ao3 Link

Twenty years is a long time to love a person. But that doesn’t make certain conversations any easier.

Originally written for FFXIVWrite 2021; rewritten as a proper oneshot.

She wakes in the night to the crisp rustle of bedsheets, a weight that is not her own dipping into the mattress. Years of practice have forced the cadence of her breath to remain steady, even, her eyes growing wide as fingertips find the cold steel of the hidden blade beneath her pillow. In the time it takes for her to grasp the handle, a hand presses itself to the curve of her thigh. The gesture, at once familiar and calming, is enough to release the tension in her muscles. She relaxes, exhaling through her nose as long fingers map the counters of her body in the dark.

“It’s alright.” His voice is gravely with lack of sleep. “It’s only me.”

“Course it is,” she mumbles, releasing her grip on the dagger. “Who else would it be, at this time o’ night?” The skylight above her lofted bed is an empty canvas, a sea of glittering stars and a singular moonbeam. The world is silent, save for the distant crash of waves against Limsa Lominsa’s rocky shores. It could not be more than second or third bell, if that. She buries her face in the pillow, smothering the exhausted groan that threatens to emerge.

Her lover offers no further explanation, rolling properly onto the mattress amidst the sagging creak of bed ropes in need of a good tightening. His chest is flush against her spine, his chin resting lightly on the crown of her head and one arm slung carelessly across her shoulder. Even with the coverlet serving to separate their bodies, she can feel the heat radiating from his lithe frame.

“How long since ye dropped anchor?” She shakes herself awake, blinking the gritty feeling from her eyes as best she can. The adrenaline slowly fades from her veins, heart thumping steadily against her breastbone. “Better yet, how’d ye manage to get in without waking anyone?”

“I’m only just back.” His voice is barely more than a rumble in his chest. It vibrates against her spine, tickling her shoulder blades through the thin blouse that serves as her shift. In reality it’s one of his blouses, left behind at some point over the past decade and never reclaimed. “As for how… the window was unlocked, my dear. It was merely a matter of climbing up.”

She frowns at the thought and its accompanying image. The act itself isn’t the problem, of course; Twelve only knew just how many windows she’d shimmied through over the course of her career. But neither of them were in the first blooms of youth, and there was a sizeable gap between the window latch and the ladder leading to the roof. One wrong move and he could have easily met his end in the rock-strewn waters beneath the tavern. Still, it’s no use lecturing him now. The deed is done, the danger passed.

“Well, what is it ye came for?” she instead asks, allowing herself to relax against his torso. “It had better be good, since ye managed to wake me from a sound sleep.” He swallows, throat bobbing audibly. His hand slides from her waist, testing the give of her thigh before creeping towards her stomach. “I ain’t in the mood for a fuck, if that’s—”

“Tch. Vulgar woman.” There’s an edge to his voice that she’s not heard in many years. It’s prominent enough to grab her attention, the last wisps of drowsy calm banished from the forefront of her mind. “Will you never learn to phrase things properly?”

“I guess not,” she replies, her voice softening. “Something else, then?” There is no answer, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest against her shoulders. It’s only when she starts to turn that his hand finds her hip once more, gently pinning her in place. “Carvallain?”

“Is it not enough that I missed you?” he finally sighs, breath rustling her tousled hair. His hand slips beneath the coverlet, pushing the blouse over her hips before trailing his fingertips across her stomach. Warmth pools between her thighs as he traces lazy patterns on the soft patch of skin beneath her navel, a latent spark kindling beneath her skin.

“Carv—” she warns, breath hitching when his lips brush the outer shell of her ear.

“Shh.” Calloused knuckles smooth over her skin, skimming her ribcage before tracing the rise of her breast. She squirms against him, spine arching in silent invitation, but he merely repeats the motion before eventually settling in the valley between her breasts. “My dear Rhoswen…” he whispers, warm and yearning. Her heart answers, thudding almost painfully against his palm.

“It was not my intention to wake you,” he explains, lips brushing against her skin. “I only want to… to feel you.” His arms tighten around her, drawing her closer and trapping the bedclothes between them. “To know that you are near.” He lets out another sigh. “I won’t keep you overlong. Go back to sleep.”

“Oh no ye don’t.” Wriggling hard in his grasp, she manages to turn just enough to free herself. The tangled bedclothes are kicked out of the way, gooseflesh rising on her bare skin as it’s exposed to the night air. The setting moon is not strong enough to banish the shadows, with only a square ilm or two of light to see by. Instead she uses her hands, trailing up from his shoulder to find his jaw, his cheek, his temple. He catches it in his own, feeling blindly over her questing fingers before pressing them to his lips in a chaste kiss.

“Somethin’s wrong. Don’t try n’ hide it.” Her thumb traces the sharp line of his jaw, searching for the edge of the scar that marks his left cheek. “Talk to me.” She relines her body with his, taking his face in both hands. Their mouths are clumsy in the darkness, noses bumping as they reacquaint themselves after weeks apart.

Last Rising, he had made a joke about the event being their anniversary. Do you remember when I pulled your belligerent hide from the jaws of death? Twenty-five years and still not an onze of gratitude. Twenty-five years, twenty of them spent in the vague, nebulous space between romantic entanglement and committed relationship.

Just like the tale of the frog in the pot, their relationship had gradually evolved from fighting and fucking into something more proper-like before they could recognize the danger. He brought her gifts from across the star, claiming that they were unsellable and therefore of no use to him; she might have even believed him, had the clothing not been a perfect fit. When they weren’t arguing in the streets, they often sat in companionable silence beneath the old tree outside the Missing Member. One day, she awoke to realize she could not remember the last time either of them had taken another lover. They had become monogamous, and they were far from the only ones to take notice.

In Limsa Lominsa, sharing a bed for two decades is as good as a marriage. The Herald predicts their wedding date more often than they predict the date of the next Calamity. Their crews manage to preserve the eternal rivalry between Krakens and Sirens by employing a sort of purposeful ignorance. Sicard, now the Executioner’s proper captain, openly jeers at them from a safe distance. Even Merlwyb has a smirk or two up her sleeve, though she wisely keeps her mouth shut. At this point, a ceremony would be a formality. For better or worse, they are a couple.

Japes and mockery aside, twenty years of sharing her bed—her life—with this man has allowed her unprecedented insight into the way his mind works. It’s rare that he can keep things hidden from her the way he used to, shielding his true feelings behind false smiles and an infuriating attitude. She can navigate the sea of his emotions as well as she can the waters surrounding Vylbrand; the knowledge that he must know her just as well, if not better, is unsettling.

“Talk to me,” she repeats between kisses, drawing him out the only way she knows how. “Please.” She can feel the moment he surrenders, his body molding against hers as he sags to the mattress. His next words are spoken into the crook of her neck, as though muffling them might somehow stop them from being true.

“My father is dead.”

“O-Oh.” She is not sure how to respond.

“The Count Durendaire—the young one, my cousin—attempted to summon me to his deathbed during my absence. By the time my men in the Seventh Sage were able to relay the message via linkshell, he had been dead and buried a fortnight.” His mouth is a thin line against her pulse. “They were only making me aware so that I might stop in Ishgard on the way back and pay any respects I felt were due.”

“I see.” Carvallain’s relationship with the former Count Durendaire was strained at best, though they had both worked to bridge the gap with frequent letters and the occasional visit. He had returned to Ishgard for the initial confrontation, meeting his sire on his own terms before his fortieth nameday. She had followed him under the misguided notion that he was returning to claim his birthright, dead-set on knocking sense into his fat head and dragging him back to Limsa where he belonged.

She really should have figured it out then, for why else would any pirate in their right mind set out to traverse a barren, snowy hellscape at the edge of the world?

What little she knows of the deceased count comes from glimpses Carvallain has offered over the years, anecdotes that always begin with before I was a Kraken…. In a way, the scope of his pain is beyond her comprehension. She has no way of knowing if her own father yet lives, nor does she care to find out. News of his death would be a cause for celebration. But she has known loss. She has mourned. That is enough, for now.

She does not ask if he detoured to Ishgard. There is no need; she already knows the answer.

“He had been confined to a sickbed for nearly half a year,” he says, an undercurrent of anger evident in his tone. “All those letters, and not once did he bother to mention his illness. Why?” The question catches her off guard. His hands tighten around her shoulders, squeezing to the point of pain. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” They lapse into silence, each mired by their own thoughts. The chronometer on the wall ticks slowly, the sound magnified by the darkness. In the far distance, there is a faint clanging as the watchman chimes third bell.

“Tis strange,” he finally remarks. “When they told me the news, my mind was blank. I could not tell you how long I sat there, staring at the wall of my cabin and thinking of absolutely nothing. And then…?” He lets out a hollow laugh. “I thought of you. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than for you to be at my side.”

“What for?” She blinks at him in the darkness, shocked and puzzled. “What good could I have possibly done?”

“I have no idea!” He laughs again, and she realizes just how close he is to breaking down in her arms. The walls built around his heart were not meant to withstand this sort of strain. Years of growth and understanding had eroded them as the waves erode the shoreline. They were fragile, friable, prone to breaking. One wrong push would send them crumbling. “I just—I wanted—I don’t know what it is that I wanted,” he admits in a small voice. “But having you there… it would have been a comfort to me, all the same.”

How the hells am I supposed to respond to that?! She’s never been good at expressing herself, even after all these years. They are not the type to coo sweet nothings at one another, or make doe eyes in public, or any of that sappy Valentione's nonsense. What they share is felt, rather than said. Then again, that’s precisely why he cannot put his grief into words, any more than she can summon what’s needed to ease his pain.

“C’mere.” Her hands find the knotted laces of his shirt, working them through the eyelets with determined efficiency. The silken fabric slips easily from his shoulders, falling to a crumpled heap beside the mattress. She removes his boots, pushing them off the foot of the bed; they fall with twin thumps to the braided rug, where she can picture them lying pell-mell beside her own.

“Rhoswen?” Ignoring his unvoiced question, she stubbornly pulls him closer to the center of the mattress before shaking out the bedclothes. She tucks herself snugly next to him, one leg draped over his bony hip and the heavy quilt drawn over their bodies.

“There.” He cannot see her face, but she nevertheless turns to hide her burning cheeks.

“What is—”

“I’ve no real choice in the manner, do I? Not when ye put it like that.” In signature fashion, the words that are meant to sound consoling and sweet are instead gruff and coarse. “It’s late but… erm… maybe it can be a comfort to ye now? Or—” Godsdamnit! Why was it that even after all these years, her tongue still tied itself into knots whenever he was involved? “Just—Just go to sleep!”

For once, he follows her demands without a word of complaint. His long legs tangle with her own beneath the quilt, hand once against sneaking beneath her blouse to reclaim its place over her heart. With a little trouble she adjusts to match his longer limbs, finding a comfortable position and settling there with a grunt.

“I thought there would be more time,” he murmurs, the words warm against her skin. “There were so many things I wished to say, so many questions I still—” There is a pause, the slightest tremble, a single, ragged breath. “I thought….”

One hand snakes up from beneath the quit to comb through his hair, fingers rustling the silky locks as she tucks the longer strands behind his pointed ears. It’s a soothing, repetitive gesture that she’s found relaxes them both. He turns his face to the pillow, shoulders quivering, a choked sound smothered in his throat. Sobbing like a child, like a little boy without his father. Staring up at the dim skylight, she finds the Bole and counts its five distinct points, timing her strokes to match the slow tick… tock… tick… tock… of the chronometer’s pendulum.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but a gull cries and she opens her eyes to see the stars have been replaced by the pale pinks and oranges of earliest dawn. Her hip is hanging off the edge of the mattress, the blouse bunched under her breasts and a chill raising the hair on her upper thighs. Sitting up, she attempts to untangle herself from the fabric. Before she can manage to yank the blouse over her head, a hand lands on her wrist.

“Don’t go.” There’s enough light to make out the edge of his features in the dark. He blinks fuzzily at her, red-rimmed eyes and an expression that’s more asleep than awake. “Stay longer,” he pleads, the words slurring together as he tugs her back into the bed. She divests herself of the blouse, tossing it over the edge of the loft with a snort.

“N’ where would I go?” She crawls beneath the proffered quilt, yanking it to her chin and snuggling deep into the cozy well he’d created in his sleep. “This is my bed, y’fool.”

“Mm.” He somehow manages to work his way down the mattress, resting his forehead against the nape of her neck. “I think…” The sentence trails off into sleepy nonsense. “Don’t you?”

“Hush, now.” Cold heels find his calves beneath the quilt, a smirk tugging her lips when he flinches from the shock. “Rest, n’ we’ll talk tomorrow.”

A blatant lie, that. Long past are the days when he’d be gone from her bed by first light, but that doesn’t mean they’ll manage to have a proper conversation. He’s an expert at kissing the persistent questions from her lips, showing her with passion and fervor until she’s forgotten what it was she meant to ask. And then, when she’s distracted by his sweetlings and my dearest, he’ll slip in a harpy just to make her swear. He’s as predictable as the tides, a wicked smile gracing his handsome face as he lets her pin him to the bed yet again.

And if they do ever speak of this night again, it won’t be in bed. It will be standing side by side at the Anchor Yard, or on the balcony in the Seventh Sage, or under the old tree. He will keep his head carefully turned as he speaks of things in his usual halting manner, flustered and puzzled and pained by the dichotomy of good and bad memories. She won’t look at him when she hears the tears in his voice—tears of grief, of anger, of both. But she will move her hand until it touches his, just barely.

Just enough to remind him that she’s near.

#FFXIV #Final Fantasy 14 #Final Fantasy XIV #CarvRhos #oneshot #Captain Carvallain #Carvallain de Gorgagne #Captain Rhoswen #Rhoswen Leach #This is still one of my favorite oneshots ngl #I need to write middle-aged CarvRhos more I think they're very sweet....#my writing

11 notes · View notes

sheepwithspecs · 1 year

Text

March CarvRhos Ficlet: Almost Kiss

|| FFXIV || Rated T ||(1/??)

Prompts Found Here!

The first of (hopefully) many CarvRhos ficlets! I hope to release as many as I can during the month of March. Each will be under 1000 words, and I’ll post them to Ao3 when the month is over. Enjoy!

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?” His voice is rough, with an edge she’s never heard before… from him, at least. He laughed low in his throat, the sound settling deep in the cradle of her thighs. “What exactly do you think this is?”

“I… I don’t—” She can’t look him in the eye, too afraid of being trapped somewhere between her rationality and the subtle way his lips are parted, a clear invitation if there ever was. It’s easier to focus on his chest, lean muscle disappearing between the folds of his shirt. Her mouth watered at the thought of leaning forward and tasting him there, one finger tugging at the neatly laced front until she could kiss the salt from his skin. The breath caught in her lungs as she imagined it, fighting to break free lest she suffocate where she stood.

“Come now, my dear.” The smooth plaster of the wall met her spine, one hand bracing her hip as he loomed ever closer. “We both know you could stop this, if that’s what you truly wanted.” His hand rose to trace her ribcage, never straying too far and yet mere ilms from cupping her breast through the thin fabric of her blouse. The desperate need to arch into his touch practically burned in her veins, and yet she would rather die than give him the satisfaction of a genuine response. She fought to remain perfectly still, hands clenched into fists behind her back.

“S-Shut up.”

“Am I wrong? Call for reinforcements,” he practically whispered, leaning down until they were eye to eye. “Struggle against me, or—better yet—draw your weapon.” The holster seemed to burn at hole at her hip. “Nothing is stopping you from fighting back. Or could this perhaps be something you secretly desire?” Pale blue eyes swept from nose to chin to collarbone, teasing her silently as they mapped the fierce blush setting her skin alight.

“Who’s talking o’ desires!? I ain’t the one wastin’ time by—by—” Her insult sputtered into silence as rough knuckles caressed her cheekbone, trailing down to cup her jaw with a leather-clad palm. She shivered despite herself, worrying her lower lip between her teeth before trying to nudge him aside with an unruly jerk of her shoulder. “Y-Ye must have a death wish,” she scoffed… or tried to, in any case.

To her immense embarrassment, her voice quivered with the timid mewl of a maiden in the first blush of youth. Her, a woman grown! A merciless corsair! Reduced to this, and by what? A tight-laced, swiving whoreson of a fop with more baubles than brains! Could ye be any more pathetic?!

“Look at me.” Unwilling to concede any further, she purposefully averted her eyes with a scowl. “Damnit, Rhoswen—” For all his mockery, his tone could have easily been mistaken as pleading. “For once in your life, can you not be so godsdamned stubborn?” The calloused pad of his thumb tugged at her skin, tracing the outermost edge of the white tattoo at her brow. She lifted her hand, fully intending to push him away, but ended up grasping his wrist in a sort of halfhearted stalemate.

“Look at me,” he insisted, and she found herself obeying without thought. His eyes fell to her lips, lingering there a moment before rising to meet her wary gaze. Gods, she swore, heart pounding in her ears, the bastard’s going to kiss me. Carvallain, known hater of the unrefined, the unpolished, the imperfect, was about to kiss her.

And worse, she was about to let him.

Her eyes fluttered shut as he leaned in, rooted in place like one of the broken pillars littering the cliffside ruins of Nym. Fingers tipped her chin higher and she quailed inwardly, torn between thoughts of escape and surrender. There’s no going back from this—

Warm breath tickled her skin—not on her cheeks, as she expected, but on the exposed column of her throat. She froze, lips parting in silent query, only to gasp aloud as his teeth found the sensitive skin above her jugular. He bit down gently, just enough to worry the skin without bruising, and she couldn’t help but melt against the wall with a smothered sigh of pleasure. His answering smile was triumphant, victorious in the face of a hard won battle.

“Delicious,” he purred, nibbling his way up to her ear. “I wonder if you’d taste even sweeter elsewhere.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

#ffxiv #Final Fantasy 14 #Final Fantasy XIV #CarvRhos #Carvallain de Gorgagne #Rhoswen Leach #my writing #I hope to keep these short and sweet #it's mostly practice but i did have a lot of ideas when I saw the prompt list last month so....#MarchoftheTropes

10 notes · View notes

sheepwithspecs · 1 year

Text

March CarvRhos Ficlet: Love Hurts

|| FFXIV || Rated M [18+] || (6/??) ||

Prompt List Here!

No intimacy, no loose ends. Heartstrings could easily strangle a man, should they become entangled with another’s.

Note: This isn’t at all what I intended to write, but the words wouldn’t stop coming anyway. It’s as though Carvallain said “No, I should be the one pining for once! It’s not fair!”

She comes to him shrouded in moonlight, creaking wooden boards beneath her bare heels, phantom fingertips on his brow. Her laughter is so soft as to be lost beneath the rhythmic rush of the sea, the muffled noises of the port beyond his window, the quiet settling of the ship all around him.

“I see ye keep poor company when yer away from home,” she teases, warm breath stirring the fine locks of hair near his ear. “There’s a street full o’ women in the pleasure quarter all but beggin’ ye to come n’ try their wares. Yet here ye are, alone in yer cabin with naught for company save yer two hands and a piss poor memory.”

“Believe what you will, madam,” he breathes back, syllables escaping his parched lips with each exhale, “but I long ago found myself under siren’s spell. I’m afraid there’s no cure.”

“Tsk, tsk. Poor thing.” She is so small, so slight, that the mattress barely dips where she curls up alongside him. Her slender leg slides over his hip, his thigh fitting easily between hers, fingers slotting together until her palm becomes his. She pushes the hem of his shirt aside, pausing to feel the rapid beat of his heart before rising to trace the angular shape of his collarbone.

“I miss you.” She would recoil at hearing such a sentiment, no matter how earnestly spoken. The very notion of being wanted is something foreign to her, laughable at best and mocking at worst. But here, in the privacy of his luxurious brocade bedcurtains, he is free to address her without fear of putting her on her guard. And she listens to him, bright eyes gleaming with affection and silent understanding. “I miss you so much.”

“Is that so? I’m surprised, seeing as ye never call me when yer abroad.” He chuckles at the thought, shaking his head sadly. The last few times he’s been bold enough—silly enough—to try the linkshell he carries with him, the result is an ear-piercing jumble of static noise and hijacked conversation. It’s been two long months since he last heard her voice, and it will be two more before he hears it again, at the very least.

“Besides, ye haven’t thought o’ me in weeks.” That’s a lie. He thinks of her every day, if not like this than in the abstract. But that’s not what she means, not exactly. “Something must have happened,” she remarks, tracing idle patterns on his chest. Her nails tickle the stippled hair growing back from his last aesthetician appointment, dipping occasionally into the well of his sternum before starting again.

“I saw something that reminded me of you.”

“Oh, aye?”

“Earlier today, in the markets….” His bed in the cabin is smaller than the one at the Seventh Sage, but still large enough that it can fit several well-stuffed pillows. He rolls towards the wall, reaching for one he tries to refrain from using overmuch. The pillow is cool against his cheeks as he buries himself in feathery softness, breathing deeply and searching for any lingering traces of her scent.

“There was a silk merchant unloading new wares,” he says, half muffled into the pillow and half in his mind. “One of the skeins was this beautiful shade of red, reminiscent of what you seem to favor.” It ripples in his mind’s eye, a shimmering waterfall of sanguine hues held aloft by the ocean breeze. The keen merchant had noticed his gaze and offered it to him, unrolling it to show off the beautiful pattern painted on its surface. An aimless, yet poignant pattern of soft curves and sharp angles, stark white on a bleeding background. In an instant he was reminded of her, of the white tattoo on her brow.

“Aye?” Another verbal nudge, fingers tangling in the wiry curls beneath his navel.

“I wanted to buy it for you, to show you—” He cannot bring himself to finish. A ridiculous notion, borne of equally ridiculous desires. She had no more use for a skein of silk than he had for a crate of cooking supplies. But it was less the practical aspect and more the emotions it invoked, the joy it would bring him to place even a scrap of the cloth in her lap and watch her confusion become admiration. To see her mouth purse in a little O of surprise, eyes widening before crinkling in utter delight at the sensation of silk against her calloused fingers. He wanted her to laugh at him for the frivolity of it all while still finding pleasure in the gift. He wanted to watch her rub it against her cheek, rolling her eyes when he—quite rightly—compared it to the smooth expanse of her inner thigh. He is certain that, should he compare them right then and there, he would find the fabric’s texture lacking.

“Oh, how I miss you,” he says yet again, a desperate sound torn from the depths of his aching chest. He clutches the pillow to his breast, a poor substitute for the woman in his mind. His hands slide down the curve of her waist, palming the ample flesh of the thighs he so admires before lifting to count her ribs one by one. “Do you not miss me too, when I am gone?” She doesn’t answer, for he does not know what the answer would be. She draws him in for a kiss instead, nuzzling into his neck with a blissful little sigh as he dips a wandering hand between her legs.

“Dearest,” he groans, feeling how wet she is for him, “my darling—” Things he would never say aloud, even if he were free to. They are sweet nothings in every sense of the word, borrowed pleasantries. They belong in another era, some alternate world where he never chose to leave the safety of his gilded cage, never donned the pirate’s mantle and learned of their many unspoken rules.

No intimacy, no loose ends. Heartstrings could easily strangle a man, should they become entangled with another’s.

The knowledge does not dull the pain. It only mislays the source, guilty pangs that seem to mock him with the understanding that he is the careless one, the foolish one. In over his head, drowning, mired in his hopeless love while she continues on in the same blithe fashion as always. Their trysts are just that—something trivial to fill the time and provide mutual satisfaction. She holds no true regard for him; she’s better than that.

But in this dream he has built for himself, he can believe. He can fool himself into thinking that she is just as bad as he is, perhaps even worse, for she clings to him and cards her fingers through his hair. She opens herself to him, whispering broken fragments of endearments as she takes him in hand, stroking him to the choppy rhythm of the waves. And when it’s over, she holds him tenderly as he sobs his release against her shoulder.

Never mind that it would never work, either emotionally or logistically. Their differences are too great, both in size and disposition. But it works now, and it’s what he needs, and it’s more than worth the guilt and that grief that come after.

“I love you.” Despite everything, it’s the truest thing he’s said tonight.

“I know.” Tired lips find the hollow of his throat and linger there, breathing him in. “Sweet man.”

“I wish….”

“Shhh….” The barest whisper, the gathering of moonbeams as she prepares to leave. Even like this, she won’t stay. “Sleep now.”

He reaches out for her, unsure of his own intentions, and finds air.

#ffxiv #Final Fantasy 14 #Final Fantasy XIV #MarchoftheTropes #CarvRhos #Carvallain de Gorgagne #Rhoswen Leach #Captain Carvallain #Captain Rhoswen #my writing #nice little bit of angst #If i do say so myself (and I do)#I adore this trope but I have no idea what it's called #ISW (Incredibly Sad Wank)

14 notes · View notes

sheepwithspecs · 1 year

Text

March CarvRhos Ficlet: Only One Bed

|| FFXIV || Rated T || (4/??) ||

Prompt List Here!

This is my favorite one to date. I originally had another idea for it, but that would be much longer than 1,000 words, so I’ve decided to keep it for a oneshot in the future. :3

This was a mistake.

He should not have come, not with the sun vanished below the horizon and the moon’s face obscured by snow clouds. Loose flakes drift past the frosted windowpanes; the fire blazing in the hearth is nowhere near enough to combat the plummeting temperatures. The inn room is bare, devoid of personality—as inn rooms often are—and ill-suited to protect against the freezing cold.

He is uncomfortable, but Coerthan winters are only marginally colder than they were when he was a lad. Although he would rather be back on the sunny shores of Vylbrand, this is nothing he cannot handle.

Rhoswen, on the other hand, is clearly not built for the harsh northern clime.

He wonders if she has ever seen snow before in her life—true snow, not the magicked flurries that rain down upon Limsa during Starlight festivities. She is dressed amply enough for the weather, thick outer garments and snug woolen smallclothes. But all the preparation in the world cannot prevent her from shivering violently, visible from across the room. Her hands are tucked deeply into the well of her arms as she stands trembling before the hearth, close enough to the naked flame that she is in grave danger of singing her new hose.

“You should have left when you had the chance,” he remarks, not unkindly. “The next airship won’t depart until the snowfall has ceased.” She shakes her head in answer. If not for the stubborn set of her jaw, he might have mistaken the gesture for one of the surges wracking her small frame.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re freezing to death.”

“Ain’t so,” she scoffs, shuffling even closer to the fire. It’s a miracle the hem of her tunic hasn’t begun to smoke. “There’s more than long-ears in this godsforsaken city,” she chatters, chafing her arms through their long sleeves. “I seen Hyurs walkin’ the streets, same as me. If they can do it, so can I.”

“They only survive because they’re used to the weather,” he points out wearily. “You’d be better off storming the gates of Garlemald.” She scowls at him, but does not offer any counterargument. Her shaking form is answer enough for them both. “Go to bed,” he orders, nodding towards the single bed pushed against the far wall. “The blankets are karakul wool, no doubt. You’ll be warm in no time.”

“Tsk! Ye think I couldn’t work that out for meself?” she huffs, stretching her bare hands towards the flames. “I tried, but that bed’s colder than a black mage’s—”

He should leave. At the very least, he should have been pragmatic enough to use some foresight. There was a warm bed waiting for him at his family home, easily twice the size of the inn room itself. There were hot irons to place at the foot of the bed, a grate tall enough for two grown men to stand abreast, fires that could warm a room much better than this paltry flame.

But he owed her—all things considered—and she was cold, and the room was bare, and it was only for a moment or two, after all—

“For the life of me, I will never understand why you insisted upon trekking all this way,” he grumbles, trying (and failing) to sound petulant. “I’d have returned to Limsa eventually.”

“Ye might not have.” Her voice is flat, but at least she’s stopped shaking the bed with the force of her shivering. Their combined body heat slowly warms the icy blankets, the modest gap between them feeling wider than a chasm. They are as far apart as they can possibly be, her spine flush to the wall, his hip hanging from the strawtick. Even so, it’s close enough that every soft exhale tickles the hollow at the base of his throat. “He might have convinced ye to stay.”

“He couldn’t have. Not in any way that counts.” His knees accidentally collide with her thighs and he jerks back as though burned, his mumbled apology lost beneath the staccato pop of pine logs as they succumb to the heat. “I think he’d like you,” he adds offhandedly. “Truthfully, I think he already does.”

“I threw him out of the tavern once.” She’s oddly quiet, pensive in the wake of the memory. “Can’t remember what he was after, but I do recall thinkin’ to meself that he looked familiar.” There is a pause, stretching thin between them without ever reaching the dangerous breaking point. “You have his eyes.”

“Yes.”

He studies her face in the night, firelight dancing off her rounded cheeks. At some point before his arrival she’d washed the paint from her face, and now he is shocked to find her lashes the color of pale straw. Her mouth seems so small without the wine-dark lipstick. She is small, especially when they are in the same bed like this, when he could so easily encompass her fingers with his own, when he could span the width of her hips with both hands—

“Why did you come?” he asks for what feels like the fiftieth time since stumbling across her in the crozier streets. Each time she’s given him a different variant of the same answer, the two of them dancing around the crux of the matter, hiding in plain sight beneath the tired veneer of arguments and accusations.

She sighs, glaring at him without saying a word. The events of the day have managed to exhaust even her boundless reserves of energy. Slowly, so slowly, he reaches out a single finger, crossing the gap, stroking the back of her hand where it lays on the center of the diamond-patterned quilt. His heart presses against the base of his throat, thrumming in his ears.

“I came because… because I thought ye could be convinced,” she finally relents.

He should leave. He should disentangle himself from the bedclothes, big her a polite farewell, and retreat while there was still some semblance of normalcy between them. While he could still push away the fact that she, Rhoswen Leach, traversed malms of stormy seas and the frozen hellscape of the Highlands, completely dedicated to her single-minded mission. Insane behavior, really, and yet the mere thought puts a skip in his heartbeat all the same.

But the snow is falling heavily now, and the glacial winds are tearing at the shutters. There’s no point in leaving and no vacant rooms, and this one only has the one bed, currently occupied. And he must know, he has to know, because the not-knowing will be what drives him mad in the end.

“And if I could not be convinced? What then?” She has the audacity to stare at him as though he were the one who’d lost his mind. As though he’d been the one threatening Brume inhabitants and clergymen alike in the search for a dead son with a borrowed name.

“I’d have still come, regardless.”

And oh, his heart his racing, and hers is, too; he can hear it pattering against her ribcage over the sound of the wind and the fire and his own stuttering thoughts. He’s not sure who leans forward first, but someone does and then her mouth is on his and Fury, her lips are soft. She tastes of salty sea air and sunshine and freedom, she tastes of home, and he vaguely wonders why they haven’t been doing this for ages now, if it was going to feel this right.

“Well.” Her voice is rough, amused, fairly crackling with nervous energy. “That warmed me right up.”

“Then perhaps I should do it again.” She smiles at that, a half-cocked gesture that does well to mask her shyness. A part of him wonders what other expressions he doesn’t notice, ones that hide the fact that should he stray too far from home, she would come to find him, regardless.

“Come with me tomorrow.” The request is given before he can truly consider its implications. “Meet my father… properly, this time.”

“I-I don’t—” Doubts lurk in the shadows of her steely gaze. He should leave now, while one of is still managing to think clearly. “Fine… but only because I’m keepin’ a close eye on ye.” A finger jabs him in the soft part of his chest, even as her arm loops around his neck. She draws him in for a kiss that’s more sloppy, more heated than the last.

“Ye’d best get to work,” she mutters, tugging him even closer. “I don’t think I’m warm enough yet.” The gap between their bodies vanishes, far more quickly than anything the highborn and lowborn of this snowy, passionless city could ever hope to achieve. He should leave before things get out of hand. Before she takes him in hand.

He should… but he doesn’t.

#ffxiv #Final Fantasy 14 #Final Fantasy XIV #fanfiction #my writing #CarvRhos #Carvallain de Gorgagne #Rhoswen Leach #Captain Carvallain #Captain Rhoswen #carvallain #rhoswen #literally this one had me rolling around on my bed like ''ooOoOoUhGgHh.... OOOUGHHHHH"#i do so love the ''i'd go to the ends of the earth for you... idiot'' enemies to lovers trope

11 notes · View notes

sheepwithspecs · 1 year

Text

March CarvRhos Ficlet: Rivals

|| FFXIV || Rated G || (2/??) ||

Prompts Found Here!

Every so often I think about how Carvallain and Sicard have the same voice actor.

He was not jealous.

After all, what reason could there possibly be to feel envious of a young, inexperienced bilge rat with an ego as large as the Rhotano but none of the brains to back it? It’s not as though he craved the harpy’s undivided attention; in fact, he scorned the very idea. He would much rather be consigned to the Navigator’s hell than endure a full day of nonstop screeching and posturing. If she was too busy consorting with other captains to pay him any mind, then that was all the better.

He could not care any less that Rhoswen and that little milksop of a deckhand—er, acting captain of the Executioners—seemed a little too friendly. That they were standing a little too close and smiling a little too much, and in broad daylight for all the city to see. What did that matter to him? For all he knew, they were planning a coup at this very moment. His concern was purely selfish; it was his duty to keep an eye on them, if only to ensure that he was not their intended target.

It was this concern that kept him lingering outside the Drowning Wench, half-hidden in the shadows of the Mizzenmast, eyes narrowed as he watched the proceedings. That was the only reason he kept an ear cocked in their direction. That was the root cause of the thorny little knot in his breast that tightened each time that boy—Sicard, was it?—nudged at her shoulder with a conspiratorial grin. As if they were comrades. As if he knew her.

He waited in vain for Rhoswen’s notorious temper to flare. Why was she not threatening to toss him over the nearest bridge, or at the very least to cut out his incessantly wagging tongue? To his immense surprise—and disappointment—she didn’t seem exasperated or frustrated in the least. On the contrary, she was listening to his endless ramble with an expression of mild amusement.

“I ain’t forgot me debts, o’ course—” He could only hear snippets of the conversation, Sicard’s voice heightened with excitement and yet still barely audible over the clatter of cutlery and overlapping voices inside the alehouse. “—still owe ye from back when we—entirely free o’ charge, I’ll see to that meself—decent investment opportunity, I’d wager.”

“Hmm… so ye say.”

“Well?” Sicard practically bounced on the balls of his feet with anticipation, flashing her a bright grin. “What d’ye think?”

“I’ll think on it.” Rhoswen cocked her head, chin on one fist as she studied the young man. “In the meantime, however… see that ye mind yerself, boy.” Sicard’s winning smile faltered, eyes widening as he rocked back onto his heels. “Keep up this kind o’ chatter, n’ ye’ll start to forget yer roots.” The lad let out a sigh of relief, shaking off her advice with a wave of his hand.

“Oh, there’s no need to worry about that. We Executioners might be more of a shipping enterprise now, but I still know who I am in ‘ere,” Sicard assured her, thumping his chest with one fist. “Once a pirate, always a pirate.” “But ye can’t blame me, either,” he added with another too-friendly nudge. “Krakens have a tight fist on imports, n’ Sirens are pulling double duty between feeding the landed n’ guarding the seabound. We Executioners were the only ones who didn’t have anything else up our sleeves… which is why I’m going to work thrice as hard as the rest of ye!”

“That being said… I won’t say no to a push or two in the right direction,” he admitted sheepishly. “Captain says I’m too full o’ meself, but I know good advice when I hear it. N’ while I might not act it, I do like… that is, I guess ye’d say I’m grateful when… erm… if I ever start toeing the line, ye’ll be sure to put me in me rightful place. Won’t ye, Rhos?”

Rhos? Rhos?! The knot unfurled behind his ribcage, thorns digging deep into his flesh and sending a wave of heat through his veins. For gods’ sakes, the boy was more than ten years her junior! Who did he think he was, addressing a lady with such familiarity? Not that she’s much of a lady, he admitted somewhat bitterly. Regardless, he has no respect for his elders— If she was insulted by the nickname, Rhoswen didn’t show it.

“Off with ye,” she ordered, shoving him lightly in the direction of the alehouse with an expression of detached fondness. The gesture, at once both affectionate and annoyed, reminded him more of an older sister taking special pains with a particularly bothersome sibling. Perhaps that is how she views him? Even so, he took the time to glare as Sicard passed him on his way to the docks. The lad glared back with all the plucky haughtiness of the unchallenged, golden eyes fearlessly locking with his own.

“What’re ye starin’ at?” he huffed, more impatient than affronted. He didn’t bother offering a response, arching one brow and hardening his gaze until the boy looked away. Sicard shrugged, rolling the unspoken insult off his knobby shoulders before continuing on.

Turning back to the Aftcastle, he found that he was now the object of close scrutiny. Rhoswen stood alone, one hand on her hip and a puzzled frown tilting her mouth; it was clear she was trying to decide what he was doing alone in the Drowning Wench at midday. He met her eyes and smirked, throwing in a cheeky wave just to further kindle her ire. Scowling, she paused only long enough to flash a rude gesture in his general direction before turning on her heel and stomping towards the Missing Member. The thorns retracted somewhat, the knot smoothing into a far more manageable lump.

Rhoswen could have all the friends she pleased, but there was only room enough for one rival.

Author’s Note: When you think about it, Sicard and Rhoswen’s stories + their relationship with their captain have a lot of parallels. I like to headcanon that she’d view him as an annoying little brother figure who’s trying his best to keep up with the big kids, but he’s not quite there yet. She sees herself in him and secretly wants him to succeed as captain, but if anyone acknowledges it she’ll have to kill them on principle.

#ffxiv #Final Fantasy XIV #Final Fantasy 14 #fanfiction #ficlet #CarvRhos #my writing #Carvallain de Gorgagne #Rhoswen Leach #Sicard #MarchoftheTropes #it's double meaning... he is her rival #but also is trying to decide if he needs to see Sicard as a rival of another sort...#even if he doesn't want to admit that part

10 notes · View notes

sheepwithspecs · 1 year

Text

nothing gets me out of bed faster than remembering it’s Heavensturn so time for my annual CarvRhos crumbs

#ffxiv #CarvRhos #the slow burn continues for yet another year

9 notes · View notes

sheepwithspecs · 1 year

Text

All Bets Are Off

|| FFXIV || Rated E [NSFW] ||

Ao3 Link

After playing the wrong hand, a certain smart-mouthed corsair finds herself in an unprecedented situation.

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 intension 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. Rhowen 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 hangs 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 scurried 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.

#FFXIV #Final Fantasy XIV #Final Fantasy 14 #CarvRhos #Captain Carvallain #Captain Rhoswen #Carvallain de Gorgagne #Rhoswen Leach #carvallain #rhoswen #fanfiction #oneshot #my writing

8 notes · View notes

sheepwithspecs · 1 year

Text

Anniversaries

|| FFXIV || Rated T ||

Ao3 Link

It starts with a flower.

The daft fool’s gone and bought her a flower, of all things.

Her. A flower.

Shocked as she is, there’s no real choice but to accept it. She takes the proffered blossom, nearly as large as the palm of her hand, and stares at it without a word. Tiny, pointed petals are fanned in neat circles around its knotted center, a dazzling crimson array; they look sharp, dangerous, like beautiful little daggers. Carefully, so carefully, she runs her fingers over one of the larger petals near its thick stem. It’s baby-soft beneath her curious fingertips, the vibrant color matching perfectly with her painted nails.

“Why?” It’s not that she hates the gift—quite the opposite, really. No one has ever given her a flower before. No one has ever dared. Rather than address her directly, Carvallain chooses to speak to the air above her head.

“You see, that is… er… I suppose one might call it—” His usual poised manner is stilted, affected by nerves that only seem to arise around her. Any other time, she would revel in the fact that she can make him nervous without so much as lifting a finger. However, now is not the time for mind games. She wishes he was more confident in his delivery, his prowess in the art of courtship, or… or whatever the hells this was supposed to be. “… an anniversary gift, naturally.”

Anniversary? Her eyes widen, lips parting in silent confusion. Anniversary of what? Casting her eyes across the plaza, she finds the Aftcastle suspiciously devoid of decoration. Nor can she remember the Admiral sanctioning any new holidays recently. She chews her lip, running through the calendar in her mind and coming up blank. He stares at her with increasing agitation, all but fidgeting in place. He glances towards the alehouse, fingers dancing in erratic patterns on his crossed arms, and she wonders if he secretly wants to make a run for it.

“What anniversary?” she finally asks, puzzled beyond measure. There’s no point in dragging it out any longer, even if it is fun to watch him squirm. He looks at her strangely, thin lips twisted in an expression that—if she didn’t know better—she might call a sullen pout.

“Ours.” Eh? Well, she thinks, the words hovering on the tip of her tongue, that’s news to me. Since when did they have an anniversary? What’s more, when had they decided on a date? Even if Admiral Merlwyb held a musket to her head, she would not have been able to pinpoint the day Carvallain had first propositioned her as a lover. They had danced circles around each other for ages before ever entertaining the idea of becoming “official”, a term the Herald enjoyed throwing around whenever their crews made the front page.

Besides: how could they have an anniversary when the nature of their relationship was still so… nebulous? In her eyes, Carvallain was an unfathomably complicated mixture of lover, rival, partner, adversary, and companion. That being said, she had no idea what she was to him. Neither of them bothered with labels. Whatever it was… simply was.

And now he—self-righteous, long-eared fool that he is—had apparently decided on his own that the two of them need an anniversary, complete with gifts. What’s more: he’d given her a flower, and she had accepted it. Now, the ball was in her proverbial court. She was meant to do something in return. But… what?

“Do you like it?” he asks suddenly, tongue catching on the last syllable. She looks again at the flower, crimson petals fluttering in the salty breeze. If anyone else had bothered to ask her such a ridiculous question, she would have told them point blank where they could stick their next bouquet. What did she look like? Only airheaded village maidens had the time to sit around sniffing flowers, plucking the petals one by one with a silly little smile on their silly little faces.

She is a woman! A pirate! A corsair with more blood on her hands than a butcher! And yet… and yet here she stands, heart melting into a soft, gooey heap. For a flower, of all things.

“Mm.” Her lips quirk as she attempts to summon the words that would accurately match the cloying warmth in her chest. It unfurls behind her sternum, painting her cheeks in a shade dark enough to rival the petals in her hand. “Aye. Suppose so.” It doesn’t feel like much, but it’s enough; he visibly relaxes, mouth smoothing into that haughty grin she so loves to hate.

“It’s a red chrysanthemum,” he explains, his hand fluttering in the air between them. “Do you know what it means?” Means? Since when do flowers mean anything? They were just… plants! Glorified weeds!

“No-o-o,” she says, eyeing him with suspicion. Waiting for the other shoe to fall, for him to laugh out loud at her blind naivety. Flowers, she grumbles to herself. Foolish, foppish business, that. To her growing astonishment, he blushes almost as hard as she does. It’s not easy to spy the flush on his cheeks, but she’s learned to tell by the slant of his gaze, the way he avoids her questioning look, the quick movement of his throat as he gulps. “What?” she demands, peering up at him with narrowed eyes.

“Never mind. It’s nothing.”

“Obstinate woman! Will you please just take it?”

He practically shoves the thing into her hand, metal warm on her palm. His own hands tremble as he closes her fingers around the clasp, holding them as though daring her to open her fist. Her multiple attempts to break free come to naught, a near-silent struggle in the center of his ornate bed.

“Not—” She breaks off with a growl, the nails of her free hand digging into his wrist. “Not until ye tell me why!” You never take them off! she wants to shout—and would, if her mind wasn’t so preoccupied with escaping his grip. But she hates being held down against her will, and—though Carvallain would never purposefully hurt her, she knows this—the longer she struggles, the tighter the knot at the base of her throat feels. Given the chance, it might choke her.

“Let go!” It had been much easier to escape her da, with his grubby, ale-soaked hands holding about as much grip as an oil slick on a rainy foredeck. But Carvallain’s long fingers can encircle her wrist with room to spare, leaving her no way of breaking free.

“Rhoswen.” There is a desperation to his voice. “Don’t struggle so, my—”

“Le’ggo!” He obeys, the sudden release sending her careening backwards on the mattress. Relief floods her from head to toe, followed almost immediately by shame, and anger, and a host of confusing emotions warring for dominance against her racing heart. All at once she feels like a child again, exposed and vulnerable. She puts distance between them with a derisive sniff, taking an inordinate amount of time to bundle up in one of his blankets. The black karakul wool is soft against her naked skin, the metal clasp still held tightly in her fist.

“I’m sorry.” Wounded, he stares at her with inexplicable sorrow. It’s clear that he’s aware he crossed a line, one which—until this moment—he had no idea existed. A painful sigh escapes him as he rubs both hands over his face, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes. “It was not my intention to argue with you. Not tonight, of all nights.”

“When I say let go, I mean it. Ye ought to have sense enough for that, if nothin’ else.” She sneaks a peek at him beneath her arm. He looks utterly absurd with only one clasp on his ear, gleaming in the candlelight. What’s even more absurd is the thought that his right ear looks bare, indecently so. There is a faint imprint, a crease in the skin where the clasp had sat for so many years. “Why?” she asks again, softly.

“Is our tenth anniversary not enough of a reason for you?” There’s no real answer to such a question. Perhaps it might have been reason enough, had he not been acting so strangely. Restless all night, fretful and timid and—just now—insistent that she must take it for herself. Even now he seems on the verge of a breakdown, unable to look her in the eyes for more than a moment or two, hands wringing in his lap. “Why must you be difficult?” he asks, voice caught on a high note. “Simply accept my gift and we can be done with it.”

“But I can’t even wear the bloody thing!” she spits, lifting her head from her knees. “Yer a thrice-damned fool of a man if ye think that’ll ever fit on me ear.”

“It doesn’t necessarily have to,” he huffs, feeding into her impatience. There’s another fight brewing between them already, borne of natural tension and too much nervous energy. Neither of them know what to do with these unwelcome feelings, nor how to handle them… aside from trading verbal blows or falling to the sheets in a frenzied passion. While she wouldn’t mind being fucked to the point of oblivion, he is very clearly trying to avoid the selfsame outcome. “’Tis not the gift itself that matters, but rather that you accept it.”

“N’ when, exactly, am I t’know just what it is I’m accepting?” She opens her hand, looking down at the lone clasp. The beautiful scrollwork along the edges of the metal catch the light in a pleasing way. “I swear, if this is some sort o’ long-ear marriage proposal—tch! What a joke!” Her cold laugh trails away when, rather than jump to his own defense, he turns his face to the wall. “I-It ain’t, is it?” she squeaks, flinching at the sound of her own voice. “Is it?!”

No answer. He averts his gaze, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Seven hells…” she manages weakly. “Carvallain….”

“Not marriage,” he finally mumbles, lips barely moving. “Not exactly.”

“What, then?”

“When an Elezen offers his love a—that is, in Ishgard, when two souls share a—devotion. It’s meant to be a symbol of devotion.” For a moment, the room itself seems suspended in time. He breaks free of the spell first, reaching imperatively for the clasp in her open palm. “It’s nothing, a whim. Certainly not worth the fuss. You may hand it back now.”

“I’ll take it.” She maneuvers her hand behind her back, putting herself between the clasp and his insistent fingers. He follows blindly, groping in the blanket’s folds and scowling when he comes up empty-handed. Leaning forward, she gently bumps his forehead with her own. “I said that I’ll take it,” she repeats firmly, gazing steadily into his eyes. Their noses brush and he sighs, the sound warm against her mouth.

“Give it back, please.”

“Not on yer life.” Slowly, so slowly, his brow starts to unknit itself. He glares at her, torn between relief and frustration and something else, something she has no name for. Its echo resonates inside her, twinkling in the depths of her stormy eyes. Without warning he surges forward, his weight collapsing them both to the mattress. He buries his face in the join of her neck and shoulder, arms tangled around her waist. He pulls her flush against him, skin to skin; though he could easily reach the clasp, he does not try to take it from her.

“Bothersome termagant.” Each word is a fluttering kiss. She smooths the hair from his neck, his pulse thrumming beneath her fingers.

“Are ye devoted to me?” she teases, tugging lightly at the tip of his newly-bared ear.

“Utterly.” The word fairly drips with sarcasm. His hands trail down her spine as he works his way from her shoulder to her ear, leaving a trail of blossoming love bites in his wake. When he again speaks, whispering just above the sound of her stilted breath, it takes on an entirely new meaning. “Utterly.”

Twenty years of gifts, and she’s never given him a single one… until now.

It makes sense, from an outsider’s standpoint. If anyone cared to ask, he would be the one to lecture them on the importance of courtship, of gentlemanly favours, the way to woo a lady of one’s choosing. Although he would pretend it’s as convoluted as the rules of Meracydian chess, in reality it’s quite simple.

He enjoys showering her in gifts.

By now, there’s no way she doesn’t have at least one of every single thing upon the star. Be it books, clothing, trinkets, jewels, silks, treats or weapons: if it can be named, he’s wrapped it in gaudy paper and handed it to her with a flourish. He does not ask for recompense, nor does he seem to mind when she has no gift for him in return. Her reactions are their own reward, leaving him thrilled beyond measure when she shows any sort of excitement over what he’s handpicked for her.

Clearly, he would be perfectly happy continuing the charted course. But she wants him to have something, too. He deserves at least one gift, recompence for years of devotion—though he still balks at the word—and even if he would be happy going without, it is for her own peace of mind as well. It has taken months of scheming to reach this point, plans written in code, gil-greased palms, hasty appointments made during his frequent trips to the East. And now?

Now, she almost wishes she hadn’t kept it a surprise. Perhaps then he might have warned her about the dangers of gift-giving. Sitting across the table from him, hands fisted in her lap, watching him admire the wrapping paper—it’s utterly nerve-wracking! What if he cannot appreciate the care that went into such a gift? What if he doesn’t understand the meaning? What if—gods forbid, what if he laughs at her?

This lack of confidence is… unsettling, to say the least. It’s not something she’s used to at this stage of her life. She has never cared for anyone’s good opinion, least of all his. But if he laughs at her… well, she’ll simply have no choice but to throw herself into the nearest body of water. Perhaps the Navigator, taking pity on her beleaguered soul, would grant her a swift demise.

With bated breath she watches him open the box, carefully prying back the first layers of thin, sky-colored tissue paper. He hesitates when he reaches the vellum lining, recognizing the material, if not its purpose. A questioning smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, brows arching curiously as he turns the box over in his hands. His gaze flits to her and she dares not respond, swallowing back her mounting fear as he unwraps the vellum to reveal her gift.

For what seems like an age, he says nothing at all.

“Well?” she chokes out, prodding him for an answer. Belatedly she realizes that this is how he must have felt that day, years ago, when he gave her the first of many flowers. The latest bouquet is already on display, a centerpiece amidst the remnants of their lavish anniversary dinner. Twenty flowers for twenty years: truly foppish business, a waste of good coin… she can’t help but look forward to them. Carnations, chrysanthemums, star lilies, apple blossoms, salvias and roses in full bloom, gathered from all corners of the globe. Each year, he asks the same question. Do you know what they mean? Each year, he refuses to explain himself.

He lifts the miniature portrait out of its protective vellum, holding it up to the candlelight. Ever so gently, one fingertip strokes the feathery wisps of pale blonde hair scattered across the painted forehead. She stares at her own face, upside down. In the whole of her life, she has never sat for a portrait before now; looking at the finished product, she is still unsure how she feels about it.

She had assumed it would be the equivalent of staring into a looking glass, but that was not the case. The portrait master’s keen eyes had noticed things about herself that she often overlooked: the natural downward slope of her mouth, the dainty shell of her ear, the little crease that formed between her brows, just above her nose. The artist had painted what they saw, rather than what she chose to see. That alone made a world of difference.

The experience had made her uncomfortably conscious of her own appearance. When Carvallain looked at her, did he also happen to see the same petulant, pensive woman? Was the miniature an accurate likeness of everything he knew her to be? She had hoped—foolish as it was—that he might take it with him on his voyages. If he truly missed her as much as he claims, he could look at the portrait and think of her. But was this gesture enough to convey those silent wishes?

A nervous sip of wine soothes her parched throat, and she looks up in time to see him carefully rewrapping the portrait. Each crease was folded with exact precision, the tissue paper arranged over the vellum and the lid firmly pressed to hold it in place. The act itself tells her nothing of his thoughts—he is, at times, both fastidious and exacting. She sits on her hands to keep from wringing them raw, watching from beneath her lashes as he slips from the chair and kneels before her.

“Did… ye like it?” Taking her face in both hands, he kisses her with a glowing tenderness that makes her heart ache.

“I love it,” he murmurs between kisses, thumbs caressing her cheekbones. “Beautiful, priceless, my treasure—” He coaxes a soft moan from her lips before nuzzling into her hair, and she cannot help but melt against his lean frame. Continued endearments rumble in his chest, tickling her fingertips without ever reaching her ears.

In the far recesses of her mind, a notion glimmers just beneath the deceptively calm surface of her thoughts: It ain’t the gift he’s talking about.

“Meddlesome codger.”

He chuckles at the insult: how can he not? Even if it holds a grain of truth, she is shooting herself in the foot. She’s older by several years, and they both know it.

“Badgering crone.” His thumb traces a line from ribcage to hips, catching on an old scar from her heyday. She is no longer captain of the Sirens, having retired the tricorn and given the new leader her blessing. Her days are spent lounging in her usual seat at the Missing Member, ensuring that the tavern’s standard fare doesn’t take a nosedive in her absence.

“Wrinkled old gaffer.” Lazily she lifts her eyes to the thirty-two flowers tucked neatly into a vase behind the flickering gas lamp. Their petals are vibrant, even in the shifting shadows of twilight. Faster and faster, the years seem to fly. How many are left? What number would serve as the bouquet’s final count?

Not that she has plans to roll over and croak, mind. These are her golden years, her well-deserved rest after years of building up one of the finest pirate crews—and finest taverns—in the city-state. In Eorzea, at that. As a young woman, she could not imagine living long enough to see her own retirement. Now, she is looking forward to this new stage of life. Who better to share these years with then the preening bastard who shares her bed?

“Withered hag.” He rolls over, trapping the quilt between their bodies. Warm lips kiss her forehead, lingering there with a satisfied grin. “I love you.”

Her heart skips a beat in her chest.

“Hmph. Never heard that one before.” Even as she says it, something deep inside her proclaims it to be a falsehood. Not an outright lie, per se, but not true either. Had he not told her as much with every gift? With each additional flower added to the bouquet? All those nights in his arms, the trips to Radz-at-Han, to Kugane… even to Ishgard, if only for the fact that she wished to see it for herself. “Ye ain’t feverish, are ye?”

“Mmm… hot-blooded, perhaps?” He smirks at his own joke. “What say you, old woman: feeling up for a round? For old time’s sake?”

“Round? Round o’ what?” she cackles, and—gods preserve her—it truly does sound rather crone-like. “Round o’ drinks? Duels?”

“Desires?” Over thirty years at her side, and still he remains as smooth and haughty as ever. It’s enough to make her snort aloud, rolling her eyes with a good-natured grin.

“I ought to be asking ye the same, then. Feeling up to it?” she jokes in turn. “Never could keep up with me, even in yer prime.”

“Liar! Should levin strike this bed….” His hand strays further south beneath the quilt, tracing along her thigh before slipping between her legs. “Shall I prove you wrong?” he offers, shifting closer into the waiting cradle of her arms. Like many facets of their relationship, their lovemaking has become something at once both practiced and predictable. That does not making it boring; on the contrary, it has become something of a comfort to them both. A way to connect physically, now that their bodies can no longer keep up with sparring.

“Yer welcome to try.” It’s his turn for derision, the air puffing his cheeks as he shakes his head. The years have thinned his long face, giving once-prominent cheekbones a gaunt air. His joints are bonier, his knees knobbier, but his face still clings to the last vestiges of youth. She has more wrinkles than he’ll ever have, but she loves the way age writes silvery-white threads into his copper locks. He used to pluck them, back when he still cared about such things. Vanity has deep roots; time, it seems, runs far deeper.

“I—” Her breath catches as his fingers awaken the first stirrings of pleasure within her. “Love ye,” she mumbles, feeling her face light up. It sounds awkward and clunky compared to his honest declaration, and yet it’s no less heartfelt. He peppers kisses across her burning cheeks, down her jaw, dragging his nose against her skin. It never fails to make her squirm, chasing his mouth with her own until she captures it with a triumphant smile. He kisses her once, close-lipped and chaste, before resting his forehead against her cheek.

“Happy anniversary, my dear.”

I only chose flowers that could come in shades of pink/red.

[Red] Chrysanthemum: I love you Carnation: Fascination Star Lilly: Passion, Commitment Apple Blossom: Preference [Red] Salvia: Forever mine Roses: Love

#FFXIV #Final Fantasy XIV #Final Fantasy 14 #CarvRhos #Captain Carvallain #Captain Rhoswen #Carvallain de Gorgagne #Rhoswen Leach #fanfiction #oneshot #my writing

5 notes · View notes

sheepwithspecs · 1 year

Text

Bewitched

|| FFXIV || Rated M ||

Ao3 Link

An argument at the Anchor Yard goes wrong... then right... then wrong again.

She tasted of oranges.

Carvallain hadn’t meant to kiss her. He wouldn’t have bothered speaking to her at all, had she not been sitting in his preferred spot in the Anchor Yard. Politely requesting that she move had yielded no results—perhaps he could have been politer, but given the circumstances—and she��d instead wasted no time in insulting his new silk blouse. His honest appraisal of her own choice in fashion was not taken kindly, and before he knew it the courtyard was fairly ringing with the sound of their verbal altercation.

Those milling around the Anchor Yard had quickly made themselves scarce, a few of the bolder fishwives commenting loudly on how some folk didn’t know how to keep a lover’s spat behind closed doors. Rhoswen ignored them entirely, climbing onto the ledge skirting the courtyard in order to better point her finger directly in his face. Already the tension was reaching its breaking point; his fingers itched to reach for his axe, knowing full well that she could draw her musket faster than he could draw breath.

He’d needed to stop himself from doing something he might later regret, and he’d needed her to stop squawking like a plucked Colibri, and the answer to both these problems seemed entirely too simple not to attempt. Grabbing her by the shoulders—theatric as it might seem, it was more to keep her from backing off the ledge and falling to her death—he interrupted her tirade and swept her into a fierce, rather lopsided kiss.

He just hadn’t expected oranges.

A whisper of citrus, the faint taste of fragrant juice, a slight stickiness to her mouth. When had she eaten one? Recently. The mental image filled his mind: Rhoswen on the ledge, watching the activity below her boots, watching the ships sail past the offing. Long, winding pieces of orange peel expertly flicked into the dark waters surrounding the docks. Licking the last remnants from her fingers with a smile, lifting her face to the sun, heels kicking idly against the stone walls. Content. At ease.

All at once he was too aware of the knowledge that he, Carvallain, was a single part of the vast scope of her existence. She did not vanish just because she was no longer at the forefront of his mind; if he was removed from this star, she would remain. Though he did not know them, she must have tastes—favorite foods, colors, scents. Did they overlap with his own? Had he been trying to shoo her from what she, too, considered a hidden sanctuary?

It was only once he noticed how stiff she felt beneath him that he realized just how vulnerable a position he was in. Thankfully, Rhoswen seemed more startled than anything else; he could almost taste the confusion in the puzzled tilt of her lips. He didn’t dare afford her time to think, coaxing kiss after kiss from her with every brush of his lips. There seemed to be only two outcomes: either she remained frozen under him, or she landed a gut punch the moment she snapped out of whatever baffled stupor he’d put her in. Given her rough edges and penchant for violence, he highly expected the latter.

She did neither. Her lips softened against his, chin tilting as she returned his abrupt affections. All the blazing passion and fervor he might have expected from the captain of the Sirens was absent; her movements were hesitant, almost uncertain, meeting his actions rather than initiating her own. As though she were trying to read his mind with naught but a touch.

A small voice in his head tried valiantly to remind him that they were in the Anchor Yard—far from a private location. Anyone could turn the corner and see them standing there, locked in an embrace that, to the layman’s eye, would hardly seem innocent. Weren’t there already enough tall tales about supposed rendezvous, liaisons and trysts that were more farfetched than sightings of sea monsters in the bay?

He made to pull away, fully intent on distracting her with one of his well-timed quips. However, all thoughts flew from his mind when she pulled him back, guiding him with one hand. The scar on his cheek seemed to burn beneath her palm, a shudder running through him as her free hand tangled in his hair.

Twelve above— He moved without thinking, yanking her forward with enough force that she nearly slipped from the ledge. Even with the added height he was still forced to bend over her, his hands sliding from her shoulders to trace the leather at her sides. She melted against him with a sigh, tongue brushing the seam of his lips in silent invitation. He could feel every curve pressed against him, feel the heat radiating off her tiny frame, and yet somehow it still wasn’t close enough.

With a half-smothered groan he lifted her by the hips, turning just enough to balance her atop Llymlaen’s altar and praying that no one caught sight of them potentially desecrating the Navigator’s holy mark. That small, bothersome voice pointed out that unless he saw fit to stop, things were bound to get out of hand. He ignored the advice in favor of grazing her chin with his fingertips, stepping forward until he was caught between her thighs.

He ran his knuckles down the smooth column of her throat, watching in wicked delight as she tipped her head to give him better access. Her pulse was erratic beneath his questing fingers, chest heaving as he bent his head to taste her skin. He ran his tongue along the length of her collarbone, wincing as her heels dug into his lower back, before tracing up to nibble at her jawline. She let her head fall back against the statue, panting as she watched him with a hooded gaze.

“What ‘n blazes are we doin’?” she mumbled, a blush burning across her cheeks. Her eyes were dark, gray irises a thin band around the wide expanse of her pupils and lips swollen with kisses. He stared unabashedly at her, committing the sight to memory; it was highly likely that he’d never get to see her this disarmed again, once one of them managed to come to their senses.

“And I thought the men were lining up to be with you?” he purred, licking his lips with a sultry grin. “This, my dear, is called kissing—I’m surprised I have to educate you on the matter.” Her lips parted, one blonde brow arching before her nose crinkled in a smirk. She let out a bark of laughter, shoulders quivering as she shook with the force of her own mirth. Before he could react she grabbed his face with both hands, yanking him back down to her level.

“I know how to kiss.” She nipped hard at his lower lip, wrapping both arms around his neck. He hissed at the sting, running his tongue over the mark and tasting iron. “I meant what’re ye doin’ to me?” The uncertainty from earlier crept into her voice, brow furrowing as she faltered. “N’ why… why am I lettin’ ye—” He cut her off with another kiss, not wanting to hear more questions he couldn’t answer, not wanting her to ponder long enough to change her mind.

“Enough,” he grumbled, trying desperately to ignore the growing tightness in his gaskins. Even if the taste of her was enough to make his head spin, he wasn’t so addled as to think they’d ever— Her hips rolled against his, grinding through the laughably thin fabric of her pantalettes, and he nearly fell to his knees.

It shouldn’t feel this good. Not with her, of all people. He felt young again, an inexperienced youth eager for his first foray into the sins of the flesh. Clumsy, fumbling, fingers tightening in his hair as he clutched her thigh hard enough to bruise. He pushed it higher on his hip, trying to lengthen the heady sensations and match her movements. Rhoswen whimpered, nails scratching at his scalp, and he found himself praying to Halone for the first time in years.

Blessed Fury, grant me strength—I can’t ruin these trousers—

“It—ah—” He shivered as she pressed open mouthed kisses to the skin beneath his ear, tasting curiously before nibbling at his lobe. “It s-seems the harridan knows how to use her sharp tongue after all.” The answering chuckle sent a white-hot bolt through his veins.

“If I’m a harridan, what does that make you?” She pulled him back by the hair, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “Seein’ as yer so eager n’ all.”

“Bewitched.” They stared steadily at one another, astral lightning against umbral ice.

“Sirens can only offer a man his deepest desire.” Her fingers slid down the silken folds of his blouse, tracing the outline of his belt buckle before skirting beneath the hem of his gaskins. He inhaled sharply through clenched teeth as they wrapped around his hardening length. “Am I what ye desire, Cap’n? Is this all it takes to bewitch ye?”

No—Yes—How should I know—

It took every onze of willpower not to buck into her waiting hand, his nerves alight with the thought of relief from the tension in his lower stomach. A scowl twisted his features as he remained perfectly still, waiting for her next move. She watched him calmly, thumb running maddening circles over his skin.

“I see.” She pumped him once with a cruel smile, watching him tremble, but not break. “Interesting. Well.” The hair on his arms rose, scalp tingling as he felt the familiar prickle of aether. The smile widened as she ruffled his hair with her free hand, leaning forward to kiss his nose with infuriating sweetness. “Until next time, Long Ears.”

With a familiar pop of aether she vanished from underneath him, leaving him to stumble into the fountain. His knee slammed against the altar’s stone base, a muffled curse sputtering past his lips as he barely kept himself from tipping over the ledge. His heart dropped to his stomach as he peered over the edge, taking stock of the long drop to the decks below.

A sharp wave of anger raced through him as his mind began to catch up to the situation. Clearly she’d teleported, most likely to the aetheryte on the Lower Decks. She had argued with him, toyed with him, and now he’d been made a right fool of. His hair was tousled, his clothing disheveled, his trousers soaked from the knees down… and he was still uncomfortably aroused. He wiped his mouth angrily, groaning aloud when his palm came back stained with lipstick.

She’ll pay for this. I will personally make sure it becomes the worst mistake of her life. The thought of vengeance was only overshadowed by the echo of her words in his mind.

Am I what ye desire, Cap’n? He tugged his blouse over the bulge in his trousers, everything from his cheeks to the tips of his ears burning with fury and humiliation. Perhaps he should throw caution to the wind and dunk his entire head into the fountain, just to be rid of the feeling.

The Navigator’s flowing water might have washed the lipstick from his face, but he knew that it could never rid him of the deeper stain now etched upon his very soul. It would haunt his waking hours, would plague him in his sleep. He would not be able to escape the memory of this encounter. It would always be there, hiding in the dark recesses of his mind, waiting for his guard to drop so that it might spring forth with a reminder:

For one moment, one single, solitary moment… he had desired her.

#FFXIV #Final Fantasy 14 #Final Fantasy XIV #CarvRhos #Captain Carvallain #Captain Rhoswen #Carvallain de Gorgagne #carvallain #Rhoswen Leach #rhoswen #fanfiction #oneshot #my writing #posted from the inn

3 notes · View notes

sheepwithspecs · 1 year

Text

Also while I’m on the subject have my fav Rhos > Carv song bc what says pining romance better than a woman scorning the idea of love but also admitting that she secretly longs for it anyway?

#carvrhos #this song destroys me every time I think about it #which is often #just the idea of ‘I know I’m setting myself up for heartbreak’#‘but I can’t help secretly hoping you mean it when you look my way’#‘maybe this time it’s real and I can finally be open with my feelings’#Spotify

2 notes · View notes

sheepwithspecs · 1 year

Text

Playing to Win: Chapter 2

|| FFXIV || Rated M || (2 / 5)

Ao3 Link

The Final Days may be ravaging Thavnair, but the first ripples of despair’s swan song have yet to fully reach La Noscea. While others tremble in the wake of nightmares, life on the docks of Limsa Lominsa continue as normal. The same can be said for the eternal rivalry of the Sanguine Sirens and the Kraken’s Arms, as well as their obstinate captains. But as tensions rise alongside reports of monsters prowling the coastline, they will soon come to realize that the only thing more frightening than a Blasphemy is… a confession.

"Though she has her own place, Captain Rhoswen often dines at the Bismarck in secret." -Melkoko

If you wish to see something done right, you must endeavor to do it yourself.

As a child, Carvallain had often heard his father tout the age-old adage when dealing in trickier affairs of business. It was one of the few life lessons he’d taken to heart, and it had served him well in his thirty-odd years of life. At times, however, he was reminded of the lesson’s importance in the most inopportune ways, with minor grievances that might have easily been avoided had he taken matters into his own hands. These tribulations were often too petty to quarrel over, and yet they were also just aggravating enough that he could not let them go unnoticed.

A ruined meal, for example.

On those tedious days when he was forced to meet face-to-face with merchants from across the star, Carvallain often treated himself to a delicious—albeit pricey—private luncheon courtesy of the Bismarck. Although he considered himself something of a connoisseur, the dish he ordered was something more akin to comfort food. His cuisine of choice: Ishgardian beet soup, served fresh from the pot with a soft bread roll and a tall glass of wine. A hearty meal flavored by nostalgia, the rose-tinted reminder of bygone days.

Being a popular restaurant, the Bismarck was often booked for months in advance; in order to sidestep this waitlist, Carvallain usually made an effort to speak with Lyngsath personally. The Seventh Sage provided the Bismarck with a hefty discount on a variety of culinary imports, and Lyngsath was willing to pull strings and provide the occasional bribe in return. This time, however, their respective schedules had made it nigh impossible to meet before the appointed day. Desperate, he’d hastily scribbled down his chosen menu on a spare sheet of parchment before handing it off to one of the culinarians.

Now, weeks later, he was reaping the unfortunate rewards of his split-second decision. The Bismarck culinarians had not, in fact, prepared him a piping hot bowl of Ishgardian beet soup. Instead, they had prepared him a piping hot bowl of Garlean beet soup.

“What does it matter?” Gerald had asked, upon hearing of the mix-up. “Beets are beets.”

“There is more than one variety of any given vegetable,” Carvallain had argued, angrily pushing away the offending soup. “Furthermore, it’s the principle of the matter. When a patron orders a meal from a prestigious restaurant, they are entitled to come away satisfied. I am not satisfied.”

“What do you plan to do about it, then?”

“For one thing, I will be marching over there to speak with Lyngsath on the sloppiness of his kitchen staff.” Gerald, used to his captain’s stringent demands, rolled his shoulders in a careless shrug.

“But are you not going to eat it?” Carvallain wrinkled his nose at the offending bowl, with its wine-dark puree and pale sprig of garnish. “Let me have it, then; I don’t care one way or another about the beets.”

That evening, Carvallain crossed the short breezeway between the Seventh Sage and the Bismarck. The sun hovered just above the horizon, coloring both sea and sky in vibrant shades of pink and orange. The air was lively with the clink of silverware and hum of conversation from the restaurant’s al fresco diners. Future patrons stood in a line that stretched along the upper walkways, waiting with growing impatience as they announced their reservations one by one to the attending hostess.

He ignored the “No Entry” sign on the lower door, opening it to find the Bismarck’s crowded storage room. Crates were stacked here and there in the corners, their bulky wooden shapes broken only by the rounded curve of iron-rimmed barrels at odd intervals along the walls. Aging casks of wine stood ready along the far wall, stacked up higher than even a Roegadyn could safely reach. Ropes of onions and peppers were strung from the rafters alongside large linen sacks of flour and salt.

Near the entrance to the kitchens, a Miqo’te culinarian was busy tapping a barrel of ale. He approached with a polite smile, signaling with a wave of his hand.

“Excuse me, my good madam.” The culinarian looked up at him with wide eyes, her ears perking curiously before falling back to her skull. “Where might I find Lyngsath? I need to have a word with him.”

“Oh! He’s down cellar, but…” she trailed off uncertainly, eyes darting to the archway that housed the stone staircase. “I don’t think… that is, you probably shouldn’t—”

“Never mind,” he interrupted smoothly, with all the charm and grace he could muster. “Continue with your work, my dear. I shall go down myself and find him.”

“But sir—!”

Ignoring her continued protest, Carvallain descended the narrow staircase to find himself in the cellar. The vaulted stone chamber was full of perishables, shelves of aging cheeses and great vats of pickled vegetables, rows upon rows of jars containing jams and jellies, and several unmarked boxes piled high with ingredients used in the more tongue-tantalizing dishes served upstairs. His lips unconsciously pursed at the sight of katsuobushi, remembering how he’d once foolishly passed off an entire crate to the Sirens without knowing its true worth as a stock.

At the end of the long room was another door, this one covered in baize to muffle any sounds from inside. The door stood propped open with a barrel, allowing him a clear view into the cellar’s second chamber. This room appeared to be Lyngsath’s private galley, with all the tools needed for any culinary venture imaginable. A large stone oven had been built into the outer wall, as well as a stove like the ones used in the upstairs kitchen. Shelves of ingredients and solid wooden counterpanes lined either wall; beneath a free-hanging rack of pots and pans, a stone island stood sentinel in the center of the room.

He found Lyngsath in front of the stove, his broad face creased with intense focus as he stood over a bubbling stewpot. At his side, perched on a wobbling, three-legged stool… was Rhoswen. Carvallain did a double-take, barely able to recognize her without the trademark crimson garb and tricorne. Without them, she looked as unassuming as any other Limsan native in plainclothes.

Seven hells— Carvallain quickly retreated to the shadows, preferring to observe the scene without fear of discovery. What is she doing here? The galley was a far cry from a tavern kitchen, yet Rhoswen seemed perfectly at home on her little stool. And Lyngsath didn’t seem at all concerned to host a culinary rival in his workshop. In fact, the two seemed to make quite the cozy pair. Hmm….

A gentleman of high standing would not be caught dead listening to a private conversation. It was far beneath him to pry, but he simply could not leave the restaurant until he’d uncovered the reason behind this little rendezvous. By leaning just so against one of the shelves, he was able to see both parties while still remaining hidden from plain sight, one ear poised to catch any choice snippets of conversation.

Lyngsath gave the steaming contents of the pot one final stir before sampling it with a smaller spoon. He rolled the liquid experimentally around his mouth, tongue working in his cheek before his eyes lit up in an expression of pure joy.

“I don’t know how, but ye’ve done it again! This is damn near perfect!” He laughed, his booming timbre echoing in the vaulted ceilings. “Clever girl, using apples to sweeten the broth! I’d have never thought of it, meself.”

“Pshaw.” Rhoswen dipped her head, cheeks glowing with the compliment. “Ain’t nothin’ to it, really. I learned it meself from a long-eared Gridanian farmer when we took on that job for the Botanist’s Guild last summer.” She deftly pared another apple as she spoke, peeling the skin from a slice and popping into her mouth with a satisfying crunch. “I ain’t above takin’ advice from the professionals. I reckon if they grew the damn things, they oughta know how to eat ‘em too.”

“N’ it’s paid off, ain’t it?” Lyngsath chuckled. “Just last week I had two of my best culinarians going off their heads, tryin’ to figure out the secret ingredient in the Missing Member’s braised beef. It’s makin’ me wonder, now… could it possibly be?”

“Might be.” She winked. “Then again, might not. I gather me own herbs n’ spices rather than relying on the markets, so who’s t’say I ain’t got more than one secret ingredient?”

Damn it all! Carvallain let out a low exhale, cursing his poor luck. This isn’t a chance encounter! It’s nothing more than a meeting of minds.

Clearly this was some sort of preplanned event; by the familiar way they spoke to one another, it might have even been a regular occurrence. While he firmly believed his opinions about the kitchen’s lack of quality service to be well founded, Lyngsath was in no position to hear them at present. Besides, he’d already endured countless merchants and their unending woes, with no consoling meal to bolster his mood. Any complaint on his part was not worth the trouble of fighting off that screeching she-devil. He turned to make a silent exit, swallowing back the bitter taste of lost gil.

“Y’know, lass, yer a true natural with flavors. I just don’t see why ye refuse to even think about striking a bargain with the Seventh Sage.” Carvallain froze, his head snapping towards the galley fast enough that the bones in his neck protested. “It’s a damn shame that pride o’ yers will keep ye from reaching yer true potential.”

“My pride?” Rhoswen scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh! Do ye honestly think that fop would bother cuttin’ me an honest deal? He’d have me head on a platter first.”

“Aww, ye don’t know that.”

Oh, yes she does! Carvallain sneered at the mental image of Rhoswen in the Seventh Sage, begging on bended knee for a single jar of Thavnairian ten-spice. He could humiliate her by parading her around as his personal servant, or force her to do menial tasks in the hopes of earning his favor, only to deny the request the moment his amusement finally waned. He almost wished she’d be foolish enough to try it, just to provide him with some much-needed entertainment.

“I mean, it’s a whole new era,” Lyngsath continued, oblivious of their observer and his cruel reverie. “Piracy ain’t what it used to be, after all, but ye found yer niches well enough. The Krakens have made a good name for themselves as tradesmen; I even heard that Carvallain brokered a deal with Ishgard, n’ I know good n’ well he used to avoid any mention o’ the place on principle.”

“N’ look at yerself!” he gushed, waving a mittened hand towards the stool. “Every night folks are lined up n’ down the balustrade, waitin’ to set foot in yer tavern. Not to mention this new seaborne guard-for-hire business on the side. Before long, ye’ll be up to yer neck in gil. So, why not let bygones be bygones? With yer talents and his spice, the Missing Member would be giving me and ol’ Baderon both a run for our coin!”

“Shut yer trap!” Rhoswen snapped, the blush spreading down her neck. She turned away from the open flames, fanning herself with the loose collar of her tunic. “Yer so full o’ it.”

“Full o— Why, I’m as serious as the plague!”

“Whatever. N’ anyroad,” she added, after a pensive moment, “the Missing Member was never meant to be fancy. We’re peasant folk makin’ food after our own ‘earts; that’s why everything on the menu is sourced from La Noscea, from the farm-grown ingredients down to the herbs we pick ourselves from the coastline. When ye eat, it ought to put ye in mind o’ yer ma’s food. If we started to use them fancy spices, n’ ingredients with names so long ye can’t begin to spell ‘em… it just wouldn’t be the same.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy it here.” Rhoswen picked up another apple, stripping the peel from its flesh with deft flicks of her wrist. “It’s peaceful-like, without everyone banging about n’ hollering at the top o’ their lungs. Ye can hear yer own thoughts, n’ I like that. I like helpin’ ye with all the newfangled recipe ideas ye always seem to have brewin’ away in yer head. N’ when them recipes get popular with yer customers, I ain’t never asked for recognition, on account of I don’t want any.”

“That’s true enough.”

“The fact is: I don’t come down here because I want to become a famous sooz-chef,” she declared, butchering the term in her usual manner. “I do it because I like to cook. But if Carval—if other people started to find out things like that, they’d start claiming that Captain Rhoswen’s gettin’ soft in her old age.” She scowled down at the newly cored apple, turning it over in her hand before slicing it neatly down the center. “All that to say: I wouldn’t be caught dead crawlin’ to that uppity whoreson, even if he were the last man on this star who could spare me an onze of salt.”

“Uppity, eh?” Lyngsath chuckled. “Now, now… ye weren’t saying such things when ye came ‘round askin’ for advice on chocolates not so long ago.”

“T-That—ugh!” Her face was turned so that Carvallain could not see it clearly from his current vantage point. Lyngsath could, however, and one look had him breaking into bellowing peals of laughter.

“Bwahaha! A face like that would turn milk sour—”

“That’s enough!” With a flash of steel, the paring knife was buried in a nearby cheese. Lyngsath jumped, eyes widening as he stared at her white-knuckled fist gripping the handle hard enough to hurt.

“Lass?” He ventured cautiously. Rhoswen’s expression took on a stricken appearance, releasing the handle as though burned.

“Oh… I didn’t mean t’—” She swallowed thickly, seeming to wilt on the spot. Before he could move she’d buried her face in her arms with a muffled sound not unlike a wounded animal. Carvallain all but clung to the shelf, equal parts curious and appalled as he studied the scene unfolding before him.

He’d seen Rhoswen angry before, blazing with fury. He’d seen her vengeful, willing to throw her own life away for one last bullet in a Garlean skull. But this was the first time he’d ever watched her lose control. A shock to the senses, but not in the way he would have imagined. It made her seem so… vulnerable.

The thought should have pleased him. It did not.

“Oh, lass….” Lyngsath seemed to feel the same, his gaze sympathetic as he reached out to gently pat her shoulder. “What’s wrong? Ye can tell ol’ Lyngsath. I won’t breathe a word of it to no one.”

“I hate him!” Her eyes were dry when she lifted her head, but each word drawn from her quivering lips sounded more like a sob. “He makes me ‘eart ache somethin’ fierce, n’ I hate him all the more for it!”

Her… heart? Carvallain averted his eyes, brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of the word. What did her heart have to do with anything?

“Don’t ye think it’s time to set him straight?” Lyngsath wiggled the knife free of the cheese, setting it aside. “With plain speak, not chocolates or challenges.”

“I don’t know… it just ain’t our way, I guess.” She flicked halfheartedly at the apple peelings, cheek pillowed on her fist. “Even if it was, we still gotta think about appearances n’ such. Krakens n’ Sirens, we’re still part o’ the tri… triad?” she guessed, making a face. “Y’know, the three powers. If somethin’ were to happen to either crew, the whole city-state would be thrown off-kilter. Pirates would be blasting one another off the Aftcastle left n’ right for the chance to replace us. Don’t ye think we’d have mopped the floor with those puffy-shirted man-boys ages ago, if that weren’t the case?”

Rhoswen had a point. The rivalry between the Krakens and Sirens had been kept alive for years by the very idea that neither side could ever be allowed to overpower the other—the resulting imbalance would be far too great a blow to Limsa Lominsa’s shaky hierarchy. On land and sea, both crews set their behavior by a mutual understanding that today’s loss would become tomorrow’s gain, proverbial scales in eternal equilibrium.

“Anyroad,” she sniffed, rubbing her nose with the back of her palm, “Carvallain don’t seem like the kind what wants a truce. I’ve tried to play nice with him before, but nothing ever comes o’ it. Last ‘Eavensturn I even went outta my way to charm an extra cake from some no-name adventurer, n’ what does he do? When I go to give it to him, the blighter tosses the damn thing overboard! He went so far as to laugh in me face about it!”

“That’s not something I’d have expected from a man what calls himself a gentleman,” Lyngsath agreed hesitantly. “’Tis passing strange: the Carvallain I know would never turn down a Heavensturn cake.”

“Hmph. Probably thought I’d done som’mat to it. He ought to know better, though. Say I was fool enough to kill him. I wouldn’t bother with something as cowardly as poison. No, I’d just march right up to the Seventh Sage n’—” She mimicked cocking and firing a musket, aiming her finger at the far wall with a click of her tongue. “No need for underhanded tricks. I got me honor to think about.”

“That’s so.” Lyngsath stirred the stewpot with a pensive air. “Clearly the way to this man’s heart is not through his stomach.”

“It ain’t that. It’s me.” She made a face that, in any other circumstance, might have given Carvallain cause to smile. “He won’t have nothin’ to do with me. I even went n’ invited him to that gaudy casino in the middle of the desert, n’ the bastard stood me up. Me n’ the girls still had our fun, o’ course, but… I thought after all we’ve been through, he might have at least humored me.”

But I was there! It was frustrating beyond measure to remain hidden, when he wanted nothing more than to charge into the galley and defend his honor. He seethed in silence, fingernails biting into the meat of his palms as he struggled in vain to pick apart her argument. Perhaps he had been rather hasty to dismiss her offer of a Heavensturn cake. But he had never failed to answer a challenge, written or otherwise! In this, surely, she had to be mistaken.

The letter had been very clear about when and where the duel was to take place. He had arrived accordingly, only to find the area empty of familiar faces. Then again, the noise and flashing lights of the casino had been admittedly taxing on his senses. And the crowd had milled thick around the designated meeting place. And she was so very small…. Was it possible that he had simply overlooked her? Even so, if you had but signed the note, I might have found reason to tarry overlong—

“Well,” Lyngsath remarked, sparing her a sidelong glance, “If ye ask me, I think he’s a bloody fool to ignore what’s right under his nose. A beautiful lady like yerself should have folk trippin’ over their own boots in their hurry to court ye. If he can’t see that, he must be blind.”

Court?! His jaw dropped, ears burning at the very mention of the word. Court!? What in the name of—since when was he—just who did they think—

“But ye see, the so-called gentleman likes his women refined.”

“Pshaw!” He shook his head in clear disapproval. “He might say that, lass. He might even believe it. But Carvallain is a pirate at heart, no matter what fancy term he uses to describe it. N’ no pirate worth his salt would ever be truly happy settling down with one o’ them prim n’ proper types.”

“Them refined ladies are… well, they’re a bit like puff pastries. Beautiful to look at, n’ sweet as sugar on the surface. But if ye open ‘em up n’ take a look inside, ye’ll find that they’re full of air. They’ve nothing to satisfy yer hunger, n’ soon enough ye’ll be wishin’ ye had something a bit more filling.”

“A lass like yerself, on the other hand, is like a nice meat pie. Sure, some folk might turn up their noses at the offer of old-fashioned peasant fare. Ye might even look a little plain to some, seeing as how yer not all bedecked in spun sugar and fancy glaze. But we both know there’s nothing wrong with a simple homecooked meal. Underneath that crust is all manner o’ savory bits, just waiting for the right person to come along n’ appreciate it. Yer nourishing n’ hearty where it counts. Don’t forget that.”

“Seven bleedin’ hells! Is that yer way of cheering a girl up?” Rhoswen berated him sharply. “Calling her a meat pie?!” She crossed her arms, turning away with a huff. From his hiding place, Carvallain could see that her entire face had lit up in a deep blush. Even the tips of her ears were tinged red. “No wonder ye never landed yerself a missus!”

“Don’t be too harsh with me, lass. I was only trying to help.”

“Ah, well.” She shrugged. “Don’t go worrying about me. I ain’t never been the type to lose me head over a sweetheart, n’ I don’t intend to start now. Carvallain can stick a rod up his arse if he so pleases. There are more important things to worry about right now.” The corners of her mouth tightened. “Listen: I don’t want ye wandering the coasts for a while. If ye need something n’ ye can’t find it in the markets, come see me. Aye?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Dunno.” Rhoswen stood, reaching for her cloak. “I’ve just been hearing things, is all. Might be nothing. Might be something.”

“I’ll trust yer judgment on that. And I’ll be sure to pass the message along to the staff as well; don’t need ‘em getting any bright ideas.”

Carvallain did not wait to hear more, unwilling to risk being caught in a compromising position this late in the game. He needed time to think, his head awhirl with everything he’d seen and heard. He crept stealthily back the way he had come, thoughts tangling until he could not tell where one thread began and another ended.

Rhoswen and Lyngsath, their professional relationship that seemed to border friendship. How long have they known one another? How many dishes hold traces of her influence?

Rhoswen make an effort to be nice to him, of all people. Of course I would have no way of recognizing it, why would I ever presume she could be anything more than—

Rhoswen’s heart, broken, breaking. Why should I care? Why do I care?

Rhoswen. I’ve never seen this side of her before, so animated, so… so unguarded—

Rhoswen. In the lowlight, in that outfit, did she not seem almost—

Rhoswen. No pirate worth his salt would ever be truly happy settling—

“That’s enough!” he admonished himself, shaking his head as though the errant thoughts could tumble out of both ears. The fresh air outside the Bismarck helped to revive him somewhat, though his stomach seemed unsettled and his heart pounded a heavy rhythm against his breastbone. He no longer had any heart for the sunset or the lively dining atmosphere; he hurried across the breezeway, thinking only of the waiting comfort of his airing bed.

It was only when dusk gave way to nightfall that he dared to untangle the mess of his thoughts and lay them all out at once, examining each at his leisure until he was certain he could find a perfectly logical explanation for each. Once again, pragmatism had triumphed in the face of reckless emotion.

Of course, that was only if he didn’t account for bizarre dreams of Heavensturn cakes, laughing eyes, and a very strange sabotender.

#FFXIV #Final Fantasy 14 #Final Fantasy XIV #CarvRhos #Captain Carvallain #Carvallain de Gorgagne #Captain Rhoswen #Rhoswen Leach #fanfiction #my writing #multichapter

2 notes · View notes