#missive event

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Hoyolab Chioriya Boutique Spokesperson Contest | GIF frames

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[mollysunder]

I didn't need any justification for Qiyana and Jinx to be the best of frenemies, but I still appreciate it. Seriously tho, I can totally see him here to just undermine Piltover's project. Zaun could always use more allies.

[0ccuria]

Why's The Inquisitor writing letters to Rook like they have to meet a set word count in an essay

[sigurdjarlson]

I think Khadgar is pranking me

Bro keeps telling me to go to Dalaran and talk to him but he’s not there whenever I go :c

It’s funny tho I get the same missive every time I log in and I’ll go look because maybe they fixed it but nah

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Genshin Impact | Roses and Muskets | The Two Musketeers Poster

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Roses and Muskets - Genshin Impact

[lionheartedscout]

Character Shaming from Clive: " Too distracted by my fabulous arse that he nearly falls off cliffs. " ( he will never let you live it down... )

Give my character a "character shaming" label @aeniqmata

"That was one bloody time! And I wasn't staring!!"

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Prima Nocta

Marcus Acacius x Virgin!F!Reader oneshot

{ Main Masterlist }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Tomorrow, you will marry your husband-to-be. But tonight - it belongs to his father.

Word count: 6k

Warnings: DUB CON only due to nature of prima nocta, both parties enthusiastically consent, twist on prima nocta, unspecified age gap, loss of virginity, dirty talk, oral sex (F receiving), fingering, dry humping, unprotected sex, unrealistic descriptions of first sexual experience, all manners of historical inaccuracies and linguistic anachronisms sorry not sorry, ignores the events of the movie so you can consider this an AU, Marcus is widowed and has a son, shall we call this bfd: Ancient Rome version lmao

Notes: I'm a bit rusty for sure, but I had the absolute best time writing this oneshot. It's a departure from my usual themes to say the least, but once this idea took hold of me it never let go. I know prima nocta is meant to be invoked on the wedding night, but I like the idea of it being the night before so I made it so 🤷🏻‍♀️ Gorgeous dividers by @firefly-graphics as always.

He thought he had gotten away with it. Having lived more than fifty winters in the capital and outlasting eight emperors, he regrets to confess that he is still none the wiser. 

It would have been such a clever manoeuvre. Palming off a generous but very much unwanted gift from the emperors, and marrying off his son in one fell swoop. 

He should have been suspicious of their swift assent to his proposal. In his eagerness to bow out of their audience, it had been convenient to dismiss the flash of malice in their eyes.

And in the snake pits of Roman court, no misstep goes unexploited.

He is not proud that he is caught off guard by the emperor’s closest advisor who intercepts his walk home from the armoury, even less so of his ineloquent response to the missive handed to him.

‘What is this?’

‘Urgent word from the emperors, sir.’

Cold sweat prickles the back of his neck as he stares unseeingly at what is scrawled on the parchment.

‘I cannot,’ he blurts out, indignance rising fast and hot in his chest. ‘I will not.’

‘You think it wise to twice refuse the emperors’ generosity, general?’

General. To him, the culmination of a lifetime of service and sacrifice. To them, an instrument of bloodshed in war, a plaything in peacetime.

Desperate, he tries a different tact. ‘The right of the first night belongs to the emperors. I dare not commit sacrilege.’

‘It is not sacrilege if it is freely bequeathed upon you, general.’

There is no mistaking the warning lilt in the last word, and he has no answer.

‘The hour grows late. You had better not keep the bride waiting,’ says the advisor with an air of finality before retreating into the shadows.

Marcus shudders at the cold that settles into the empty space, fingers stained with ink from the now crumpled dispatch. 

He remembers nothing of the remainder of his short journey to his quarters. As the front door swings open, he realises there is something in the night air that is out of place.

Sea salt.

You are here. 

Would you be demure? Frightened? You are of royal lineage, a lady of the small but proud coastal kingdom strong-armed by Rome into an unequal treaty for its profitable trading posts, in return for the mercy of not being razed to its fertile grounds.

And now, you are lowered to marry a general’s son. 

Worse, lowered to have your virginity taken by his father.

Candlelight spills from the crack underneath the door to his bedchamber. Marcus takes a deep breath, and pushes it open.

You hear him. The swish of fabric, the slide of leather soles on marble.

The general is here.

Your hand in marriage is part of the terms of the treaty, and the missive that sent for you announced your match as the widowed hero general. You had him cast on the wretched journey from your home as one of the domineering, brutish soldiers now garrisoned at your family’s kingdom - only to be told on your arrival that you will be marrying his son instead.

Relief at the news that your future husband would not be decades older than you is instantly snatched away by furtive whispers of prima nocta.

Your future father-in-law will take you first.

The humiliation is bitter on your tongue. You are Rome’s to marry off, hers to give to whomever she pleases -

But she won’t break you.

The door creaks. You stand tall and hold your ground.

He sweeps into the room with an air of well-worn authority, the cloak on his back dark as the shadows that nip at his heels.

The candles flicker when he sheds the heavy robes with a smooth sweep of his arm.

You stare, in a manner that would have had your lady-in-waiting tutting. But you are alone, very much so, with this man not ten paces from you.

General Marcus Acacius. 

He is older, certainly old enough to have a son your age. But you had not imagined him so - strong, for the lack of a more imaginative word. His shoulders are broad under his wine red tunic, and you can see the muscles in his arms flex as he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. From where you stand, you can hardly see any silver in his dark curls.

Marcus unflinchingly assesses you right back. 

No, you are decidedly not demure. Or frightened. Far from it. 

You are defiant, even as you observe him with evident curiosity. Your head held high, a telltale sign of your noble breeding, mouth set in a stern line while your eyes burn bright with a proud fire. 

Judging the silence has gone on long enough, he breaks it with a formal, ‘My lady.’

‘General,’ you answer steadily.

The door slams shut belatedly behind him, and you flinch - the first glimpse of weakness you concede. 

Marcus breathes in, delivering his next sentence with as much composure as he can muster. ‘I expect you have been informed of the - formalities that we are to perform tonight.’

You grind your teeth so hard you are astonished that your jaw doesn’t crack.

Your virtue is just a formality.

Refusing to dignify his question with an answer, you nod once. 

He watches you wordlessly, and you meet his gaze. You thought you would find something else there, not the regret that you see.

Turning away from you, he reaches for the amphora on the table. 

‘Wine?’

‘Yes, please.’

The wine is drunk in silence and moderation. Him at his desk, you perched on the end of the bed.

As you sip, pacing yourself, you observe the general discreetly from across the small distance between you. 

To say that you are disconcerted by his behaviour would be an understatement.

You assumed that he asked for this - for the perverse pursuit of deflowering his son’s bride-to-be while eschewing the unwanted responsibility of a wife. 

Yet, watching him stare pensively into his goblet, lips pursed in a pout that is almost sullen, you are not so certain anymore. 

When you bring your drink to your mouth to find it empty, you clear your throat. ‘I have to wake up early tomorrow morning - for the wedding.’

The general starts before collecting himself, drawing himself up to his full height as he sets down his cup with a heavy clunk. ‘Understandably, my lady.’

Then he moves, charting a course across the room, licking his thumb and index finger to douse the candles dotted around the space.

The thought comes to you unbidden - he has thick fingers. And big hands. 

Your cheeks tingle with heat.

Soon the chamber is cloaked in darkness, save for the candles next to the bed, the warm light pooling in the most inviting manner on the soft surface despite your trepidation. You long to rest your aching feet. 

He comes to a standstill on the other side of the bed, as if waiting for you to take the lead. You cannot decide whether you are thankful for him not imposing on you, or frustrated at him for not taking the lead in what is very much unfamiliar territory.

In the end, the desire to get off your feet wins out, and you gesture at the bed. ‘Shall we…?’

‘Certainly.’ He bends down, you assume to take off his sandals. You do the same, toeing off the soft leather slides the maids had you change into when they dressed you.

Once barefoot, you climb in with as much grace as you can summon, acutely aware that you have an audience. Your knees sink into the mattress, and you’re relieved that it is stuffed with feathers, luxuriously giving under your weight. Shifting primly, you find your back against the headboard, cushioned by equally soft pillows.

The general follows suit, the frame creaking as he eases onto the suddenly too small bed, strong shoulders brushing yours as he settles next to you.

You stare hard at the back of your hands, the only way to stop your gaze from wandering to the span of his fingers splayed wide on sturdy thighs, or lower to the bony ridge of his knees - gods, you must be unwell, since when have you been drawn to knees?

You are still questioning the state of your sanity when the general, who has been nothing but unperturbed and composed since he stepped into the room, stumbles over his words in a manner that is neither, as if he had held the question behind his teeth for too long.

‘Are you - are you absolutely certain - in no doubt - that you are… untouched?’

His question stings like salt in a festering wound. Indignant doesn’t even begin to describe the retort you spit at him. ‘Yes, I am. Are you?’

Peering at you sideways, his eyes widen at your outburst, and fear briefly flits across your heart that you have overstepped.

 But then, he surprises you with a smile. ‘You bite, don’t you?’ 

You let your shoulders sag, too far gone to hold onto your facade. 

‘It’s been a long day, sir,’ you admit. ‘To be frank, I just want to get this over with and forget it ever happened.’

He pauses at your confession, as if weighing his options. Then he shifts, and says, ‘The reason I ask if you were untouched is because, if you were not - we could have just pretended we did this.’

You frown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I did not invoke prima nocta, it was imposed upon me. The emperors are displeased that I turned down the betrothal, this is their way of punishing me for my ungratefulness.’ 

Oh.

As much as you didn’t want this either, your pride suffers to hear him describe it as a punishment.

‘I know…’ you stumble, halting to steel yourself. ‘I know I am nothing like the women here in Rome. I spend too much time in the sun, and my hands are rough from working with horses -’

‘Why do you say that?’ he interrupts you.

You look away. ‘That is why you do not wish to marry me, is it not? And why you do not want this - why you do not want me.’

The general sits up, palms on the mattress to support his weight, the lines on his forehead deepening with a frown. ‘No, that is not the reason. You are young, you deserve a husband who can build a life with you in the years to come. Not a washed-up widower.’

The bitterness in his voice turns your head. 

‘You’re not washed up, from what I hear.’ Somehow, you find the courage to add boldly, ‘Or from what I see.’

Letting your eyes trail unabashedly over his broad frame, a thrill chases through your blood when you notice his Adam’s apple bob with a tight swallow. He’s so close that you know you’re not imagining the heat seeping into your bones.

Silence stretches between you, charged with a consciousness that creeps in and spreads. Two souls from different worlds and stations put in a situation in which neither of you had a hand. This may not be how you imagined giving away your virtue - far from it - yet your stomach twists in anticipation.

You glance upwards, only to find him already watching you.

Something has shifted when you so bravely reached out and tipped the balance with your words. He can tell that you are not one for flippant flattery, and it takes him a moment to collect himself, harder said than done with the blood roaring in his ears.

When he speaks, it comes out in a much lower register than he intends, so much so it sounds like a secret. 

‘You say you just want to get this over with. But I can - I can make it good for you. It doesn’t have to be something you want to forget.’

Your eyes widen and your lips part, and heat blooms almost uncomfortably in his chest. ‘You would do that for me?’

‘I will serve you in whatever way you ask of me tonight, my lady.’

Never have mere words, albeit delivered in such a delicious baritone, moved you so. You came in expecting to have your virtue stripped from you, the same way Rome callously stole you away. Where you thought humiliation and dishonour awaited, this man is offering deliverance and devotion - if only for one night.

Your throat tight with emotion, you nod in lieu of a spoken answer.

Marcus is deliberately slow in his movements, wanting you to feel safe in his presence. ‘How much do you know? So I know what I need to teach you.’

Despite yourself, shyness rears its head and you mumble, ‘I’ve - I’ve heard stories. I know what… happens… between a man and a woman in the bed chamber.’

He nods reassuringly, making you feel less of a fool for the juvenile answer you gave. ‘And has anyone touched you before?’

There’s no mistaking the lurch in your stomach as your heart hammers violently. ‘No. No one. Never.’

The protector in him stirs, summoned to duty, warring with the desire that seethes under his skin like the unholy flames of Vesuvius. He fears it is a quickly losing battle. 

Reading the desire in your endearingly open face, Marcus reaches over you to settle one hand on your hip as he leans close, his breath warm on your cheek.

‘Have you ever kissed a man?’ he rasps. 

You shake your head, eyes fixated on his mouth, framed by a tidy moustache. He is so close that you can see his beard is flecked with silver.

You swear the general is leaning into you, and every inch of you is on tenterhooks, enraptured by his proximity -

‘You should save it for your husband.’

You barely forestall the whine of protest that teeters on the tip of your tongue, pinching your lips together, but his lopsided smile tells you that he knows. 

‘I can kiss you elsewhere though.’

‘Oh,’ you inhale shakily when he dips to mouth at the side of your neck, landing on your pulse point in a suckle. Your whole body arches off the bed, hands gripping the sheets, head spinning at all the sensations that are new to you - the burn of his stubble, the cool trail his lips leave behind -

Then the palm on your hip pulls you into him, sprawling you against the wide cage of his body, your breasts pressed against his broad chest. The dress they put you in is thin, and the fabric rubs against your pebbling nipples as his kisses travel daringly low.

‘Am I going too fast?’ he pauses, voice strained.

Breathlessly, you shake your head.

‘If you want me to stop, or wait, you say the word. Understood?’

‘Yes, general.’

Two words he hears daily from his men, and yet from your lips, they unleash a dangerously feral side of him.

More. Is the only coherent thought that remains. 

Impatient hands reposition you so that you are astride him, and he groans when you slot flush in his lap. He watches your eyes widen at what you feel between your legs. Your dress rides up, and his blood rushes south at the bare expanse of your inner thighs on his skin. 

‘I want to see you,’ he speaks plainly, palms squeezing the dip of your waist. ‘May I undress you? Please?’

All decorum flees you, and you might have chanted yes, yes, yes to his question.

Dropping your chin, you watch his thick fingers nimbly undo the knot holding the front of your dress together. The silk capitulates like water, tumbling down in delicate drapes around your waist, baring you to his heated gaze.

‘You are beautiful,’ he declares with a solemnity that steals your breath.

And it is easy to believe him, the way his dazed eyes trail over your breasts, before his hands follow. Calloused palms, which you are sure have held many a sword in triumph, now cup your tender flesh in reverence. 

Your head lolls to the side as he teases you, but when he rolls his hips upwards, your eyes snap to the pained expression on his face. You’ve heard ladies in court whispering over wine about length and girth, but nothing could prepare you for the thrill of feeling a man’s undeniable desire for you.

Instinct guides you, moving your hips so that you are grinding against his length, seeking relief from what is building deep within you.

‘Do what feels good,’ the general murmurs encouragingly, palms on the small of your back to let you take control.

And just like that, you are thrown back to one summer’s day in your youth. You were bathing in a rock pool, under the spray of a waterfall in perfect solitude when you accidentally slipped forwards on the smooth stone surface. The unexpected sensation between your legs ripped through you like lightning on a clear day. And you chased that feeling, hips undulating until you shuddered and cried out. Knees trembling in the aftermath, you never dared to seek it out again, but neither did you forget.

And now, years later, you finally know what had transpired. Pleasure. And this time, under the general’s hooded gaze, you pursue it with single-minded determination.

Marcus wishes you knew how beautiful you are in this very moment. Breasts swaying in tandem while you rock back and forth on his clothed length, eyes glazed, every whimper from your swollen lips making him throb harder for you.

‘Good girl,’ he rasps, throat tight. ‘Take your pleasure. Take what you need.’

And when he sucks your nipple into his mouth, you wail, tipping forward at an angle that unexpectedly takes you apart.

The waves that wash over you are more intense than you remember, and you are sure that has to do with the man holding your hips to his as you buck, and the warm swirl of his tongue against your breasts, sucking and nipping as you come down from your high.

‘That was not your first time,’ he states as a matter of fact when the white noise in your ears finally fades.

‘It happened once, a long time ago, and I didn’t understand then -’

‘And now you do.’

‘Yes, general.’

This time, he lets loose a moan at your words. ‘I can feel your wetness through your dress.’

Confused, you look down, and your cheeks burn when you spot the dark patch on the delicate fabric. ‘Oh, I -’

‘It’s natural,’ he assures you. ‘The wetness makes it easier for -’

It dawns on you when you feel his hardness twitch under you. Oh. 

‘It - you feel -’ you stutter, struggling to comprehend how the girth of what you are sitting on could possibly fit inside you.

Taking your hand, Marcus presses a chaste kiss to your palm, eyes warm and open. 

‘We will take it slow. I will use my fingers first, to prepare you for me,’ he explains patiently. ‘I promised I would make it good for you, did I not?’

‘You did.’ 

And you have complete faith in him.

Your knees knock into each other hopelessly when he slides you off his lap, and he has to bodily prop you up against the pillows. Sinking into the soft feathers, you watch him kneel between your parted legs, and you feel so safe even as he towers over you. 

‘May I disrobe you?’

You bite your bottom lip, and nod. 

Except it’s not a disrobing, it’s nothing near as civil as that. The general rips the rest of your dress clean down the middle, rendering you completely bare beneath him.

Marcus knows should be ashamed of his brash behaviour. But how could he when you react so viscerally, jaw slack as your chest heaves in unmitigated desire? 

His gaze shamelessly trail over every curve and dimple, from the breasts he has tasted to where your knees are demurely closed, and knowing that he is the first - the only - to have laid eyes on you makes him impossibly hard. 

It matters not that you are not his to keep. This will always be his. 

‘You are exquisite,’ he professes, voice tight. 

You duck your head, more shy of his compliments than being nude before him. ‘You don’t have to.’

Sliding a finger under your chin and tilting your head until you meet his gaze, he assures you, ‘I mean every word.’

Then he moves down the bed until he can rest his weight on his elbows, and you startle when rough palms glide over the outside of your thighs, stopping at your knees. 

He pauses to give you time. ‘Are you certain you wish to continue?’

Your answer is a confident yes.

Then, as if opening the shell of Venus, he delicately pries your knees apart, and his breath hitches as you are revealed to him.

He is aware that he’s staring like an imbecile, words failing him. As the silence stretches on, you become self-conscious.

‘General,’ you demur, moving to cover yourself.

Shaking his head, he finally says, ‘Forgive me, but you are perfect.’

Then he looks up at you with such intensity that has you struggling to catch your breath, and without breaking eye contact, he bows his head - 

And closes his lips over you there. 

You are wholly unprepared - no one has ever gossiped about this in court. Your hips buck violently off the bed, but Marcus holds you down with reassuring hands, suckling on the pearl between your thighs with gentle laps of his tongue.

‘Oh, oh, oh,’ you stuttter, torn between watching the man wreak the most devastating pleasure on you and averting your gaze.

You’ve only ever known worship to be pious, and yet, this most vulgar adulation is the closest you’ve been to the gods.

His beautiful curls brush the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, catching the candle light as he moves, and the crook of his nose - so proud even with the scar on its bridge - draws patterns on your skin as he stakes his claim where no one has ever touched you. 

You quickly realise that what you felt just now in the general’s lap was insignificant and thin in comparison. This pleasure is all-consuming, something divine that has you weak and trembling all over. All you hear are slick, wet sounds of tongues and lips, and your own whimpers between garbled groans.

Marcus feasts on you, unapologetically. Flattening his tongue, he tastes you in broad sweeps, moaning into your sweet cunt as you writhe above him, your needy mewls driving him to the edge of madness. You taste like fig - the earthiness of the purple peel, ripe sweetness of the pink flesh.

Then your hands wind into his hair, pulling him closer, ankles hooking over his shoulders. He groans harder, the sound rattling in his ribs as you soak his beard. Surrendering any last vestiges of shyness, you rock against his tongue, nails scratching his scalp as you whine louder into the night air. 

Moans that will echo long after you’re gone.

The thought alone hardens his resolve to mark you unequivocally. You’re close, your pliant body quivering and breaths coming in shallow gasps now. He peers up at you, but your eyes are sealed shut and upturned at the gods, your breasts heaving.

Gently, he eases one finger inside you, and he grunts at how easily he slides in. You barely react, and so he pushes back in with two, coaxing a cry from you. Your cunt clenches as he gently thrusts his digits in and out, stretching your tight walls. 

‘Oh gods. Oh gods,’ you pant violently.

You’re close, so close. He wants to warn you of what is to come, but it feels like sacrilege to tarnish the moment with words. When he feels you begin to quiver, he laves at your clit harder, burying his fingers inside you to the knuckle, until he feels you crest and break. 

‘Gods, oh gods - Marcus!’

The cry of his name catches him off guard. He nearly loses control right there and then, as you ride out your high on his fingers, but by some miracle he holds out through gritted teeth. He devotes his attention to kissing his way up your body, from the slick inside of your thighs, to the side of your hip, making you jump when he sucks on your sensitive breasts.

You stare at his mouth with wild, dark eyes, and him at yours, but he vowed to leave your first kiss to your husband. Girding his self-restraint, he asks, ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, Marcus.’

His cock twitches at the sound of his name on your lips. He wants to hear you say it in all manners of ways - whisper it, gasp it, scream it. And by the cheekiness in your smile, it’s clear that you know what he’s thinking.

Your eyes drop to where his hardness is pressed against you. ‘Will you teach me how to please you, general?’

He swallows a groan, the animal in him rattling the bars of its cage. He replies diplomatically, ‘I will teach you how to teach your husband.’

In one smooth tug, he shucks off his tunic, then his loincloth, and he tries not to be self-conscious under your watchful gaze. Pulling you against him, skin on naked skin, he smears kisses along the side of your neck, smiling at your answering shudder. In return, you run your lips and scrape your teeth over his collarbone. 

Taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, he slides it all the way down his chest and wraps your fingers firmly around his throbbing cock, his pained moan in your ear.

Eyes wide, you marvel at the size of him in your grip. ‘You are so big.’

Marcus curses through clenched teeth. ‘You are an insolent girl.’

With a wicked glint in your eyes, you correct yourself, ‘You are so big, general.’

If he wasn’t so aroused, he would have chuckled at your cheek. Instead, he growls, ‘Such insubordination.’

Tilting your head to one side, you grin. ‘And how would you discipline me, sir?’

He lets the silence linger for a beat, allowing anticipation to build as one big hand splays over your ass, hot lips brushing the shell of your ear. ‘I would deny you my cock, my lady. Let your sweet cunt weep for me, empty, not knowing how good it would feel to have me deep inside you.’

You are unsure if you are more shocked at the explicitness of his words, or at the gush of wetness that has you pressing your thighs together. If you had to wager a guess, he is just as affected as you by the way his length pulses in your grasp.

Marcus smiles as he takes in the way your body reacts to him. ‘But how can I deny such a lovely, desperate creature such as yourself?’

A sob escapes you. ‘Please, Marcus - I’m yours to take.’

With that, all self-restraint abandons him, and his lips crash into yours. At the back of his mind, he knows you deserve a better first kiss, something gentle and sweet. But to your credit, you seem to take it in stride, winding your arms around his neck with a deep groan as he deepens the kiss. Opening up your mouth, he sweeps his tongue against yours, making sure you taste yourself and the pleasure that he had wrung from you.

When he reluctantly pulls back for air, you hum, ‘I thought you said I should save that for my husband.’

He all but snarls, ‘Damn your husband.’

The possessiveness in his tone sends you reeling, and his resolve wears even thinner when your cunt brushes against him, so wet and soft, begging for him. 

‘I cannot wait any longer,’ he declares.

You bite your lip beseechingly. ‘Please, Marcus, I cannot either.’

He braces himself above you on strong arms, until all you can see is him, backlit by the soft candlelight. Beholding his beauty - the wisps of gray at his temples, the scar lining his cheekbone - your breath catches at the tenderness in his eyes as he stares down at you.

Holding the base of his cock, Marcus notches himself at the entrance of your cunt, trembling as he holds himself back. 

‘I will go slow,’ he assures you. ‘If it hurts, you tell me to stop. Understood?’

Your mouth dry, you can only nod. 

Holding your gaze, Marcus rolls his hips ever so slowly, jaw slack when he breaches you, inch by tortuous inch.

He is barely inside you and you already feel so unfathomably full.

‘Marcus,’ you gasp when it gets impossibly tight, nails digging into his broad shoulders.

He stops, and whispers encouragingly, ‘You are doing so well for me, taking me so beautifully. Just breathe.’

In between his patient, languid kisses, you unfurl, and Marcus gently pulls back, before pushing into you, deeper this time.

When you cry out, he shushes you, brushing the wet corners of your eyes with his lips. ‘Does it hurt?’

You shake your head. ‘No, it’s just - so much.’ 

‘I know, I can feel how tight you are gripping me,’ he mumbles into your neck, throbbing inside you while he holds himself still as you adjust. ‘Brave, sweet girl.’

When you find your voice again, you give him cheek. ‘I am a woman now, general.’

He smiles at you - a warm curl that crinkles the corners of his eyes endearingly - and claims your lips again. Feeling the tension seep out of your body, he thrusts shallowly so you can learn the movement of his hips. When he hits a spot that makes your jaw drop and your hips buck, he pulls all the way back, and drives himself to the hilt in one smooth motion.

And with that, you become a part of his soul, and his yours. His chest swells with the fiercest possessiveness and the greatest honour all at once, despite knowing that the circumstances that brought you together will inevitably tear you asunder at the break of dawn.

‘Marcus!’ you choke on a sob, throwing your head back, your walls clutching his cock in a merciless grip.

‘There she is,’ he grunts, mouth scraping the shell of your ear. ‘Say my name like that.’

And you do, over and over again, as he fucks into you. His pants land harshly in the crook of your neck with every thrust, hands greedily squeezing all the skin he can find - the curve of your ass, the dimple in your waist, your thigh to hitch it over his hip.

Looking down at you, eyes drunk and unfocused as you stare back at him, each squeeze of your wet cunt around him, every breath from your lips feels sacred.

He is seized by a sudden need to know. ‘How does it feel?’

Your eyes soften, and he shudders when you cup the side of his face to bring his nose to yours. ‘Divine.’

Marcus loses himself in you, in the wet squelch of your cunt around his length, the way your tightness takes every thrust. Words of praise that he doesn’t even hear tumble from his lips and onto every inch of skin he can reach as you cling to him, scraping your nails down his back and digging into the meat of his ass.

Pitching forward to press a hard kiss to you, he says, ‘I want you to fall apart for me again.’

‘Please, Marcus, please.’

Pushing himself up to his knees, still buried deep inside you, he spreads your thighs obscenely wide over his hips, and he moans at the sight of your cunt so full of him. With hooded eyes, he sucks on two of his thick fingers and brings them between your legs, carefully drawing circles on your clit, knowing that you are already sensitive from cumming twice for him before.

Your face twists in agony as he builds you towards another climax, patiently weaving the web of pleasure that wounds you tighter and tighter until your spine feels like it will snap in two. ‘Marcus, oh - don’t stop, don’t stop, oh gods -’

He bares his teeth as he feels you start to clench around him. ‘That’s it, that’s it. Cum on my cock, let me feel you, give it to me.’ 

Your peak crashes into you relentlessly, and as you are swept away, you can only wail and thrash, while Marcus curses and stutters unintelligibly above you as he spins out of control.

He had every intention to pull out, but it is as if some higher power is determined to foil his plans. With a guttural roar, his hips snap flush against yours, big palms grasp you so hard by the waist that you squeal, and he spills into you in hot gushes, once - twice - and again until he is spent.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

He doesn’t know if he said that aloud or if it was a trick of the mind. All he knows is that he eventually collapses bonelessly onto you, skin fused together with sweat and cum as your breaths become one in the crisp night air.

It is him who breaks the stillness, his old bones creaking when he stirs to relieve an ache in his back. His softened cock slides out of you, prompting you to whine in protest. He grunts when he looks down to see his cum dribble out of your cunt, leaving a pearly trail on the inside of your thighs.

When he meets your eyes, there is no awkwardness in the silence. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to spill my seed inside you. That was reckless.’

Your heart skips a beat at his admission, and you can’t hide the pride in your voice. ‘Do I make you reckless, general?’

He tries and fails to be stern in his answer, the tenderness with which he brushes his nose on your cheek giving him away. ‘I know better than to encourage your insolence with an answer.’

You are far from discouraged though, quite the opposite. Knowing you have this man - who commands armies of thousands - at your mercy is a siren’s call.

Peering at him from under your eyelashes, you curl one leg around his waist. ‘Do you want to be reckless again?’

He huffs, but a smile breaks through. ‘Have you ever been told that you are a cocktease?’

You hum teasingly. ‘I have never heard that word before, but I like it.’

‘You do?’ he breathes against your lips. ‘You like being my cocktease?’

‘Yours, general.’

Marcus is astounded when he feels himself harden again, and he moans as you press open-mouthed kisses down his neck. ‘What spell have you cast on this old man, my little cocktease?’

You grin, letting him ease you onto your back so he can settle between your thighs again. ‘The kind that lasts until dawn.’

Eventually, morning must break, sure as the moon turns and the sun rises. In the golden rays of day, you will wed his son in ironic, virginal white, showered in rose petals. He will look on from the side in his finest ceremonial robes of red, as you walk away from him and into your new life as someone else’s wife.

But in the velvety folds of this night and many more to come, safely ensconced in the deepest corners of his memories, in lands far away, in war and in peace, there he keeps you - where you are not.

More notes: Thank you for reading! As usual, comments/reblogs/asks would be very much appreciated 🥰 I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I loved writing it!

[call-me-strega]

Dc x Dp Prompt #10: Inter-Dimensional Bake-Off

Alfred was checking the mail the manor had received that day when he found it. In between bills, fan mail, and company missives was a regal purple envelope addressed to one Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth. Intrigued, Alfred set aside the rest of the mail and sat to open the letter.

Inside was a high quality cardstock invitation of a metallic silver color decorated with luxurious midnight green script. It declared on the front:

“You Are Cordially Invited”

Alfred raised an eyebrow and flipped open card.

Dear, Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth You have been cordially invited to participate in the first annual inter-dimensional bake-off to celebrate the coronation of the young, King Phantom, age 21, Ruler of the Infinite Realms, the Great One, Protector of Souls, Keeper of Peace, The Perfect Balance, The Infinite King, Ancient of Space and Reality. We have discerned that you are among the top 25 bakers in the 11 most stable and prominent dimensions with an open connection to the Infinite Realms. Thus, we would like to offer you the opportunity to show off and test your skills against talented competitors. Should you accept, all transport, accommodation, amenities, materials, and potentially needed medical care shall be provided by the King and his court. If you would like to bring any specific ingredients or tools you are welcome to file a request for them when you arrive and they shall be summoned to you at the start of the competition. You are allowed one plus one either as an assistant or moral support. Should you have any questions please write them down and place them on the sigil on the next page and recite the incantation bellow: “bonvolu respondi mian demandon” The event shall occur in a fortnight upon the weekend before the kings official coronation ceremony. In order to confirm your participation in the competition please burn this letter with one of your most recently made baked goods. In order to decline simply dissolve this message under running water. Please confirm your attendance or absence within a week’s time. Kind Regards, the Council of Ancients Advisors to the Good King Phantom

Well, it seemed like Alfred had earned a place in a rather prestigious event. ‘It seems a finally have a reason to make use of all those vacation days Master Bruce keeps insisting I must utilize.’ He smiled to himself, tucking the letter into his pocket. ‘I wonder if Master Jason would be amicable to accompanying me for a weekend of baking in a magical dimension?’

~ Just in case anyone has trouble reading the letter:

Dear, Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth You have been cordially invited to participate in the first annual inter-dimensional bake-off to celebrate the coronation of the young, King Phantom, age 21, Ruler of the Infinite Realms, the Great One, Protector of Souls, Keeper of Peace, The Perfect Balance, The Infinite King, Ancient of Space and Reality. We have discerned that you are among the top 25 bakers in the 11 most stable and prominent dimensions with an open connection to the Infinite Realms. Thus, we would like to offer you the opportunity to show off and test your skills against talented competitors. Should you accept, all transport, accommodation, amenities, materials, and any potentially needed medical care shall be provided by the King and his court. If you would like to bring any specific ingredients or tools you are welcome to file a request for them when you arrive and they shall be summoned to you at the start of the competition. You are allowed one plus one either as an assistant or moral support. Should you have any questions please write them down and place them on the sigil on the next page and recite the incantation bellow: “bonvolu respondi mian demandon” The event shall occur in a fortnight upon the weekend before the kings official coronation ceremony. In order to confirm your participation in the competition please burn this letter with one of your most recently made baked goods. In order to decline simply dissolve this message under running water. Please confirm your attendance or absence within a week’s time. Kind Regards, the Council of Ancients Advisors to the Good King Phantom

The Esperanto translates to “please answer my question"

Edit: now with possible contestants

[splatoonusna]

We've received an emergency missive from Grizzco HQ regarding this weekend's BIG Big Run event! There's an urgent ask that all available part-timers clock-in to help drive back this unprecedented threat! Check the letter for more:

[thegreatyin]

okay so. beggar's wake is, from what i understand, the last segment of nemesis. once caeru gets past it, very little stands in the way of completing his ambition. this is essentially the equivalent of the training arc at the end of heart's desire.

is there anything caeru should get done before he's past the finish line.

not long now.

[himegureisu]

The Gift

Summary: Out of nowhere, your husband receives a gift from you.

A/N: This came to me last night after thinking of what type of mail people receive. Here's one I hope you enjoy.

------------------------------

The Owl Postal Service in Hogwarts was, if not, consistent in their delivery time.

This time being, the hour after breakfast started for everyone to ensure that no disruptions, except important missives, were to be received during class hours.

Your tawny barn owl sailed through the Great Hall, over the heads of students and staff, and landed on the High Table in front of its’ intended recipient, your husband, their dark and grumpy Potions Professor, Severus Snape.

It was uncommon for the Potions’ Professor to receive anything but Potions’ ingredients, his usual Potions’ Journal subscription, or official mail either from the Ministry or the Order so the package, a neatly wrapped gift in royal green paper, silver ribbon, and a tag attached, accompanied by a letter in your distinct handwriting was bound to attract attention.

“Is there a special occasion?” the Headmaster’s eyes twinkled upon the sight of the young Potions’ Master quite confused,

“No,” Severus answered, “Not that I know of,”

His thoughts a mile a minute through his brain, slowly, internally panicking. His eyes locked at the present in front of him. Did he forget YOUR birthday? God no, you’d thoroughly celebrated every time the day came around. Did he forget his birthday? Did he forget an anniversary? Did he forget a muggle holiday that you loved to celebrate? No, so what was this doing here?

“It’s wrapped beautifully,” Minerva remarked, from across Dumbledore, “Will you open it?”

He does. First, the letter.

“Sev,” your voice echoed through his brain, “I know you’re probably trying to think of any reason why I would send a gift to you on a normal day.”

You know him far too well.

“Just stop. Do I need a reason to send a gift to the one I love when I feel like it?” a soft smile slowly formed on his lips as he read that line, his colleagues’ interest piqued at the change, “It’s from our holiday and other events, I hope you like it. I know I did. I love you, I’ll see you when I get home,”

Your letter was swiftly tucked in his robes after then taking the package from your owl. Severus proffered a treat for them, and they happily ate before it perched itself on his shoulder. His hands gently tugged on the silver to unwrap the gift.

His initials and yours, on the cover of a leather-bound enchanted photo album.

On the first page of your story, the title page, if the album was a muggle document, was a candid photo from your most recent vacation. Your arms wrapped around his. His figure was behind yours in a hug. Your faces were engulfed in laughter after a guide failed to land a joke against him.

“Oh,” Severus whispered, Your gift was amazing. How did he get so lucky to deserve you?

“That’s a rare sight,” Filius said, by his right, “Severus smiling and speechless,”

“She’s beautiful, Severus,” Albus complimented,

“We look forward to meeting her,” Minerva said,

Their words fell on deaf ears.

Beneath the photo album, in a frame, there was another photo of the both of you from afar. This moment was captured by a charmed camera that you didn’t even know was there until after it happened. In the wilds of Wizarding Britain, on your first date, underneath the stars, he’d kissed the back of your hand, admitted his affections, and asked if he could kiss you. To which you shyly agreed, and received the sweetest kiss you’d ever experienced.

This he could place on his desk. The others were not up for public consumption.

“If you’ll excuse me, Professors, I must send a response,”

[areislol]

life as a monarch isn't easy, of course, but with a needy and infatuated concubine on top, it just makes your life and duties far more difficult than they need to be.

infatuated! chen liu, your favoured concubine, is a constant presence in your life. draped in the finest silks and adorned with gold ornaments, he’s the very picture of elegance—and perhaps a bit too spoiled.

his adoration for you is unmistakable, bordering on obsession, and it often complicates your already demanding responsibilities as a ruler.

he always follows you around wherever you are, his doe eyes filled with longing whenever you’re out of sight for too long. he’s ecstatic when you ask for him to accompany you, whether it's a simple walk through the gardens or a more formal event.

chen liu can’t stand the thought of sharing your time, let alone your affections. he pouts when you visit other palaces, pressing his lips to your ankle in a silent plea for reassurance. the more you distance yourself, the more insistent he becomes, his jealousy simmering just beneath the surface.

despite this, you find it hard to reprimand him harshly. you know he would throw a tantrum if he could, but he’s careful not to embarrass you in public.

the tension between your duties and chen liu’s constant need for your presence grows more apparent. you’re often preoccupied with matters of state—diplomatic meetings, strategies to strengthen the kingdom, and managing the delicate balance of power among the nobles.

yet, every time you return to your chambers, you’re greeted by the sight of chen liu, waiting anxiously for a moment of your time.

he’s there when you wake up, his eyes lighting up the moment you acknowledge him. he’s by your side during meals, though his gaze is often fixated on you rather than the food. and in the evenings, he lingers near your quarters, hoping for an invitation to spend the night with you.

the other concubines are aware of his favoured status, and while they dare not voice their jealousy, you can sense the unease it creates. chen liu, however, seems oblivious to this, entirely focused on you.

but lately, his behaviour has started to concern you. he’s become more possessive, subtly questioning you about your visits to other palaces. his tone, once playful and adoring, now carries an undercurrent of fear—fear that you might one day choose someone else over him.

currently, you sat at your desk, surrounded by scrolls, letters, and missives as the morning sun streamed through the tall windows of your private chambers, casting a golden light across the finely woven tapestries and marble floors.

being a monarch was no simple task. today, like every day, you balanced the needs of your kingdom with the politics of foreign palaces, trying to secure alliances and maintain peace.

as you read through a letter from a neighbouring royal house, a soft knock came at the door. without needing to look up, you knew who it was—chen liu.

"enter," you called, your voice steady but distracted.

chen liu stepped into the room, dressed in his usual elegant robes of rich silk. his movements were graceful, but you could sense the tension in the way he carried himself.

he always exuded poise, but there was something in his demeanour today that seemed... off. you knew why, of course. chen liu did not enjoy sharing your attention, especially when that attention was given to other royals, diplomats, or anyone who took time away from him.

"your highness," he said softly, coming to stand beside your desk. His eyes flicked over the scrolls, his lips pressing into a thin line before quickly returning to his usual soft expression. "allow me to bring you some tea."

you smiled, though your eyes remained on the parchment in front of you. "thank you, chen liu. tea would be nice."

He bowed his head, his silky raven-coloured hair cascading in silky waves, framing a face that was both delicate and striking, an eye candy that drew attention effortlessly as he turned to fetch the tea. the room was quiet again, but you could feel his silent frustration in the air.

chen liu never voiced his jealousy, never acted out, especially not in public, but you knew him well enough to recognise the small signs: the way his jaw tightened when you spoke of foreign dignitaries, the way his hands lingered a little longer when he served you as if trying to reclaim your focus.

when he returned with the tea, he poured it with the same careful elegance he always did, setting the cup before you. you took a sip, grateful for the warmth, but you couldn’t ignore the quiet tension.

"you’ve been distracted lately," he said softly, standing beside you, his fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the desk. "so many letters, so many meetings. your attention is always... elsewhere."

you paused, setting the cup down and finally looking up at him. his expression was calm, but his dark eyes held a sadness, a quiet frustration.

“you’ve been visiting the phoenix feather abode often,” he remarks one evening, his voice tinged with unease. he’s kneeling at your feet now—something he grew fond of doing—his fingers lightly brushing against your robes as if seeking to anchor himself to you.

“is there someone there who’s captured your interest?”

you sigh, not again.

“my duties require me to visit all the palaces,” you explain gently, hoping to ease his mind. “it’s not a matter of preference, chen liu.”

but he remains unconvinced, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. “then why have you not visited me as often?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “have i done something to displease you?”

you can visibly see how his brows furrow, the fear that he’s losing his place in your heart. it’s a delicate situation, one that requires careful handling. you reach out, lifting his chin so that he meets your gaze directly.

"you could never displease me, liu," you assured him, "you are my most cherished companion, but i cannot let my personal desires interfere with the needs of the kingdom."

chen liu knows that, he knows that there's no one else in the world who could make you as happy as he could, who could satisfy you, who could meet your needs. but even so, he wishes you could just focus on him even if it was a couple of minutes.

his fingers tightened around the hem of your robe, his eyes filled with desperation. "your majesty," he murmured, his voice trembling, "please, just a moment of your time. i need you... i need your touch."

you could feel the intensity of his need as he clung to you, his gaze pleading. it was clear that his heart ached with the absence of your presence, with a sigh, you gently pried his fingers from your robe, your touch tender despite the firm resolve in your voice.

"chen liu," you began softly, "i understand your worries, but... please understand, my duties require me to be away. the alliances and meetings are absolutely crucial for the stability of the kingdom."

his eyes glistened with unshed tears, and he took a shaky breath, trying to compose himself. "i know, your majesty. it's just that... every day, it feels like I'm losing a piece of you. the time we used to share seems like a distant memory."

he knows the way he's acting right now is childish. he was a concubine, your concubine, not a lover.

liu's patience seemed to wear thin as he gripped your robe with frustration, his earlier submissive demeanour subsiding. "you know i don't like it when you pay attention to anyone other than me," he murmured, his teeth gritting with irritation.

his eyes, once filled with pleading, now sparkled with a challenging glint. "why bother going to see those men? you have me."

"it's not fair, you know. you spend so much time with them, making deals and alliances, while i'm left here, waiting for scraps of your attention. do i mean so little to you now?"

your eyes widened slightly at the shift in his tone. his behaviour caught you off guard, although you weren't all that surprised by his brattiness. he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest as if to shield himself from the reality of your obligations.

"i will not discuss this any further," you said firmly, your tone brooking no argument. "feel free to stay and be silent or leave."

chen liu's eyes widened at the finality in your voice, a mix of defiance and hurt flickering across his face. he took a deep, shaky breath, his posture shifting as he grappled with his emotions.

he hesitated, glancing around the room with an air of uncertainty. the room, filled with the soft glow of lanterns and the muted colours of opulent silks, suddenly felt colder to him.

he lowered his gaze, a sign of both surrender and submission. "i apologise," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "i'll stay."

chen liu remained at his spot beside your legs, his earlier brattiness replaced by a sulking silence.

you watched him for a moment, your heart heavy with the knowledge that the distance between you had grown despite your best efforts. turning back to your paperwork, you felt a pang of sadness, but what else could you do?

as you continued with your tasks, you cast occasional glances at your concubine. despite his silent brooding, he stayed put, and before you both knew it, hours passed, and as the day drew to a close, you finally set aside your work.

the room was bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, casting long shadows across the floor. you turned to find chen liu still there, his eyes fighting hard to stay open.

with a sigh, you reached out your hand, beckoning him closer. he wasted no second, rising to his feet and standing up. his fingers brushed against yours, and for the first time that day, you allowed yourself to let go of your burdens, if only for a moment.

"come," you said softly, pulling him into your embrace. "you’ve waited long enough."

his arms wrapped around you tightly, his head resting against your shoulder as if he feared you might slip away again.

for tonight, you could afford to forget the world outside. for tonight, chen liu would be your world, just as fate wished for you two to be.

and as you held him, his grip tightened, just slightly, silently promising that he’d never let you go, no matter what.

[dancingbirdie]

This request is really out of the blue but, i need I CRAVE i require a fic where tav and astarion finally find a cure for his vampirism (in dnd5 it can actually happen yay!) and he manages to see his reflection again and finally have his natural eye color again (blue bc he's prob a moon elf but I don't mind other colors too). The fangs can stay or not, idc, i just want my boy happy, in love, and cared for. Bonus points if there's cuddles too

OK first of all, thanks for this prompt!! Second, I had to break this up into two parts because I'm afraid of how unwieldy it would get otherwise. So see part 1 below. I'm actively writing part 2 and should have that posted within the next few days. Hope you enjoy!

UPDATE: Chapter 2 available here!

I Promised You (Chapter 1)

Rating: G

Pairing: Astarion x GN!reader

Word Count: 3.1K

Warnings/Tags: mentions of unconsciousness, cheeky banter, domestic life, post-events of BG3, potentially problematic levels of self-sacrifice by reader.

***

“All right. I think you’re ready,” Gale affirmed as he peered over your shoulder, analyzing your hand movements as you practiced the incantation. 

“You think? Shouldn’t we wait until you’re sure?” you replied, heavy skepticism coloring your tone. 

“I can’t give you my complete assurance because you haven’t actually cast the spell,” the wizard sighed. 

The two of you had had this argument many times over the past several months as you studied and practiced. And studied and practiced some more. The conclusion was always the same, but your anxiety always managed to convince you that a different outcome would be had if you just asked him again. 

Conjuration magic was one of the most difficult forms to master. Yes, you had specialized in it during your formative years, under the tutelage of several learned wizards across Faerûn, but this spell was perhaps the pinnacle of feats in conjuration. Only a handful of wizards could perform it. Thankfully Gale was among that number, which is why you had come to him for help.

“As I’ve said, this isn’t a spell you can just cast for practice runs,” he continued. “You have one chance. And if it works, the sheer power of it is undoubtedly going to knock you unconscious.” 

“I know, I know,” you grumbled. “I just… I need to be absolutely perfect. I have to do this. For him.” 

“Have you told him what you’re planning yet?” Gale prodded.

“No. Not yet. I didn’t want to get his hopes up. Or have him tell me how unlikely success will be. Not until I was absolutely sure I could do this.” 

“I see,” the wizard returned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Well, tonight is as good a time to tell him as any. There’s nothing more I can teach you to prepare for this. You know the incantation by heart. You perform the gestures almost through muscle memory now. You’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” you repeated, as if saying the words would will it to be so. 

“Send me a missive if he wants to go through with this. I’ll come to the cottage and oversee the spell’s casting.”

“All right,” you nodded.

“It’s going to work. You have to believe it’s going to work,” Gale encouraged, meeting your eyes with a serious, stern sort of expression.

“It’s going to work,” you agreed. “It’s going to work.” 

***

It was dusk by the time you returned to the cottage. It was a modest home you shared with Astarion, situated just outside the city walls. It had a lovely view of the rolling hills that surrounded Baldur’s Gate, and proximity to the Chionthar River gave the air a refreshing, misty feel. Pastoral communities dotted the countryside with sheep and cattle grazing freely during the day, though they had returned to their stables long before your return.

Astarion was no fan of the bucolic lifestyle, as he was wont to remind you. But you both agreed that this living situation afforded him better meal prospects than the rats, cats and errant stray dogs that dwelled within the city limits. At least this way, he had more fulfilling options for food, since the livestock attracted their fair share of large predators. A mild, perpetual confusion charm that you cast kept the neighbors from questioning why – unlike their peers in neighboring villages and towns – their animals were never plagued by roving bears and panthers. 

Astarion was lounging listlessly in the bay window of the den when you entered your home, one leg dangling off the ledge of his reading nook while he carelessly flipped through a book. Probably one he had pilfered from Gale’s stockpile a few weeks ago, you surmised. There had been an uptick in the wizard’s grumbling about discrepancies in his library catalog of late. 

“Anything interesting?” you asked as you shrugged out of your traveler’s cloak and hung it on the coat rack by the door. 

“Ugh, hardly,” Astarion grouched. “Nothing but debunked theories and philosophies from bloated scholars who died a hundred years ago.”

“You’re going to have to return Gale’s books to him eventually, you know. He’s beginning to realize how many from his library are missing.”

“Haven’t the slightest clue what you’re referring to, darling,” he replied breezily.

“Of course, love,” you chuckled, planting a kiss on his forehead as you passed him by to make your way into the kitchen. 

“Care for a glass of wine?” you called.

“Mm, yes,” Astarion returned. “Red, please, dear.”

Uncorking the bottle and pouring the glasses gave you a brief moment to collect your thoughts. To steel your nerves for the conversation looming before you. Drawing a deep breath in and exhaling it slowly, you made your way back into the den and braced for the inevitable. 

“Darling, do you have a moment?” you asked as you offered Astarion his glass before taking a seat next to him. “I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Gods, it must be serious,” he teased, straightening from his reclined pose to take the proffered glass and make room for you. “You like you’re about to be ill. Go on then, love, before you faint and spill this vintage all over the floor.”

“It is rather serious, in fact,” you began, clearing your throat that had suddenly become tight with nerves.  “I’ve waited to tell you until now, but I’ve been researching some more difficult conjuration magic with Gale the past few months…”

“Oh?” Astarion prompted as you paused. “For what purpose, darling? I thought you had already mastered the school of conjuration.”

“I have. But this is a more specialized form. More… niche, I guess one might say. And, well…” you trailed off again, hesitant.

“Go on,” he encouraged. 

“I’ve-been-researching-a-spell-that-cures-vampirism-and-I-think-I’ve-found-a-way,” you spat out all at once, the words tumbling into each other like a wagon train gone wild. 

Astarion met your eyes with a blank stare, seemingly forgetting that his one hand had been in the process of lifting the wine glass to his lips. 

“I beg your pardon?” he asked hoarsely.

You coughed to clear your throat. “What I mean to say is: I’ve been working with Gale for months now to learn a spell that can cure your vampirism. He and I believe I’m ready to perform it. If you would allow me to try, that is.”

“If this is your idea of a joke,” he murmured, a slight quiver in his voice. “Then I have to tell you, it’s absolutely not funny at all.”

“It’s not a joke!” you assured. “I swear to you, Astarion. It’s not a joke,” you continued, squeezing one of his hands in yours. 

He nodded absently, his gaze trained on your thumb as it soothed over the knuckles of his fingers.

“H-how?” he whispered finally. “How can you cure it? I’ve read every tome I could get my hands on for over two hundred years. Nothing, nothing, I’ve read has ever offered a solution.”

“Because this is a highly guarded spell. It’s only passed down through oral tradition among wizards who specialize in conjuration magic. Which is why I’ve needed Gale’s help,” you explained. “I broached the topic with him some time ago, told him how we were going to look for some way to cure your vampirism. Being a master of magicks himself, I thought he would be a good source of information for me to begin my research. I wasn’t even aware of the spell until he shared it with me. He’s been teaching me the mechanics of it since then. It’s been a difficult spell to master but–” 

“What’s the cost?” Astarion interjected suddenly, meeting your gaze with a new intensity.

“It will cost you nothing, obviously,” you retorted, disliking where the conversation was heading. 

Astarion huffed through his nose. A caustic, frustrated sort of sound. “Don’t play cute with me, darling. You know what I mean.”

“No. I don’t,” you hedged.

“What will the spell cost you,” he bit out through a clenched jaw. 

You bit your lip, hesitant to reply. Astarion’s gaze never wavered. 

Finally you sighed. Better to reveal the consequences of it all than attempt to hide the downsides from him. Even though they were negligible in your eyes, compared to the wonder that would be returning his elfhood to him, you knew he would resent being told only partial truths. You couldn’t fault him for it. You would feel the same, were the roles reversed. 

“It will permanently weaken me. There’s a small, very small, chance it could kill me if I perform it wrong,” you confessed.

“No,” Astarion responded bluntly, without a hint of hesitation. He rose from the bench and made to leave the room. As if the matter had been settled and it was time to crack on. 

“Wait! What do you mean, ‘no’?” you blurted. Jumping to your feet, you snatched at the sleeve of his nightshirt. 

He turned to peer at you with a haughty gaze, one eyebrow arched delicately. “Exactly that. No. You’re not risking your life on the off chance of this working.”

“But it’s not an off chance. It will work! And the likelihood of me dying is incredibly slim!” you protested.

“But the likelihood of you being ‘permanently weakened’ is essentially certain, yes?” 

You rolled your eyes. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it sounds. And besides, I don’t mind. I want to do this, Astarion.”

He scoffed. “Have you gone absolutely mad? ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds.’ Do you even know what will actually happen to you afterwards?” he shot back angrily.

“No,” you admitted, a bit quieter. 

He deliberately widened his eyes at your response, crossing his arms across his chest as if to say See? My point proven. 

“But I know I can handle it! And I love you enough to try!” you retorted.

That appeared to be the wrong choice of words. You realized it immediately as his expression morphed from outright anger to something darker, icier.

“Well then, it seems we’re at an impasse, darling,” he growled. “Because I love you enough not to have you go through with this.” 

You opened your mouth to object once more, but he continued, ignoring you. 

“AND, since it is my body and my life we’re discussing, it means I have the final say on the matter. My answer is no.”

You had anticipated this conversation going many different ways. You thought you had prepared for the most likely scenarios. But, in all your pondering, you hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that Astarion would reject this opportunity outright. 

Your eyes welled with tears. Hot, angry, disconsolate tears. 

“Astarion,” you murmured, desperate. Angry though you both were, you couldn’t resist the urge to curl into his embrace. Gently, you pulled at his arms in an attempt to un-cross them. With a soft sigh, he allowed you to manipulate him so that you were pressed chest to chest. Your arms banded around his waist, locking him against you. Slowly, he raised his arms to mimic your stance, peering down at you.  

“Astarion, my darling, this is your chance. It’s the only chance we’ve found in over two years of searching. I know I can do it. And you can win it all back. I can help you. Let me do this,” you pleaded. 

“Darling, how could I ever ‘win it all back’ when there’s a possibility I could lose you forever? Or that you could be seriously harmed in the process?” he lifted a hand to cup your cheek, smiling sadly. “I would never forgive myself if you were harmed in an attempt to cure me.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping freely down your cheeks. “Please. I know I can do this. Please let me do this. I want to do this for you.”

“Come, pup, no more tears. I’ve given you my answer,” he murmured, swiping a thumb across your cheekbones to catch each tear.

You opened your eyes to glare at him. “If the roles were reversed, would you want to try this for me?”

“Of course,” Astarion huffed. “But that’s obviously different, I –”

“WHY? Why is it different?” you cried, clutching him. 

“Because you’re worth it!” he implored, arms vibrating as though he were resisting the urge to shake sense into you. “Your soul is worth a thousand of mine! It’s not marred by death and torture and sacrilege. Can’t you see that? Don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t,” you argued obstinately. “Because you are worth it to me. Your soul is priceless to me. I love you. You’re the love of my life.”

Astarion said nothing, just stared at you with sad eyes. You couldn’t tell if his silence meant you were persuading him, but you couldn’t relent without giving at least one more desperate plea. 

“I promised you. Remember? After everything that happened, I promised you we would find a way for you to walk in the sun once more. I didn’t make that promise lightly. I want to do this for you.”

“Darling…” he murmured sadly, shaking his head. 

“Astarion, please,” you beseeched, shifting to clutch his face between both of your palms. “I’m literally begging you to let me try. Gale and I have been practicing for almost a year now. He wouldn’t tell me I was ready unless he was certain. I know I can do this. Please. Let me try.”

“Don’t you have any regard for your own life?” he whispered. “How is it that I’m more concerned for your well being than you are?” 

“Darling, all of us have the slightest potential of dying every single day we continue to breathe. Anything poses some risk to our lives. I’m telling you, the risk of me dying from this is the same as the risk I take casting any other magic.”

“But there’s still a permanent cost to doing this. Have you even asked Gale to elaborate on what that entails?” 

“No,” you admitted a bit sheepishly. “I didn’t really think about it.” 

Astarion rolled his eyes but planted a kiss against your forehead. “You’re ridiculous, you know.”

“I’m sorry that I was so ecstatic about finding a cure that I leapt straight into studying it!” you said defensively, although your tone lacked teeth. 

He chuckled and wrapped you in a tighter embrace, resting his cheek on the top of your head. The two of you stood like that for some time, arms wrapped around each other, lost in thought. 

After a while, Astarion cleared his throat. “I want us to speak to Gale. I want to know the full details, the consequences of a spell like this.”

You jerked your head up in surprise, staring at him with wide, elated eyes. 

“I’m not saying yes,” he clarified, attempting to tamp down your burgeoning excitement. “But I’m willing to hear more about this… possibility.”

A delighted squeal rocketed up your throat. Quick as a flash, you jumped to wrap your legs around his waist. Long used to your ebullient antics, Astarion caught you with a practiced ease. His arms banded under your thighs and across your lower back, squeezing gently. 

“I love you, you daft, feral thing,” he chuckled, nuzzling your cheek. 

***

“I would have gone over this months ago, had you afforded me the opportunity,” Gale had groused upon arriving at the cottage the following evening. The three of you shared a bottle of barrel-aged Callidyren while Astarion peppered the wizard with umpteen questions about the spell’s mechanics. To his credit, Gale managed to assuage Astarion’s concerns. At least for the most part. 

The permanent effects of casting the spell, you both learned, would diminish your inner well of magic, rendering you unable to cast as many spells as you currently could before resting for a longer period of time. Almost as though the cost of performing the spell would revert you back to the strength you had had as an apprentice so many years ago. You would still be powerful, capable of wielding even the most intricate of spells. But your endurance would be shorter, more concentrated. It was a price you were more than willing to pay. Even more so now that you had actually allowed Gale to describe the effects in detail. 

“I still can’t believe you didn’t press for more details,” Astarion grumbled. 

“It didn’t seem important at the time,” you sniffed, waving a hand dismissively. “Still doesn’t, in my opinion.”

“You know, in some schools of thought,” Astarion countered dryly, “people believe the difference between bravery and complete idiocy is so fine a line that it frequently gets crossed.”

“So I’ve heard,” you crooned. “But, alas, I’m nothing if not an incredibly adept fool in love.” 

Gale observed the two of you warily, as if uncertain whether this exchange constituted harmless domestic banter or an undercurrent of severe agitation. 

“Yes, well,” he interrupted awkwardly, “as I said before, you’re as ready as you will ever be to perform this magic. I’ll be here to supervise and intervene, if necessary, though I don’t think it will be.”

“Bully for us. Is there anything else we should be prepared for, if we’re to go through with this?” Astarion snapped. “Sudden onset sliminess? Gills? Frothing at the mouth?”

You winced. He was always his most discourteous self when he was afraid. Gale might not realize it, but you knew him well enough to tell when his rudeness was obfuscation.   

“Ahem,” Gale coughed, clearly affronted by the impertinent question. “No, nothing of that sort. But this spell is incredibly demanding on one’s body. It’s very likely they’ll fall unconscious once it’s been cast. The effect shouldn’t last for more than a few hours. Enough time for a proper rest.”  

“You failed to mention that yesterday,” Astarion said peevishly, glaring at you from across the dining table. 

“Because it’s the equivalent to me needing a good sleep after a tiring day,” you quipped. 

Gale winced. “It’s a bit more serious than that, I’d argue.”

“Thank you,” Astarion intoned. 

“Tsk. An inconvenience at worst. Nothing unmanageable,” you retorted. “So, what say you, darling? Are you willing to give this a try?”

Astarion’s glare shifted between you and Gale, studying you both. 

“And you both swear to me that all information is now disclosed, yes? No partial truths, no hidden side effects?”

“I swear,” the two of you responded in unison. You reached for Astarion’s hand across the table. 

“My darling, this will work. I’m going to be fine. And you’re going to be cured,” you smiled gently. “Please, trust me.”

He squeezed your hand, crimson eyes boring into your own. 

Finally, after a moment, he gave you a terse nod.

“All right. Let’s try,” he agreed.

[separatist-apologist]

What Died Didn't Stay Dead

Summary: Gwyneth Berdara has been promised to a brutal prince who imagines himself a god. Setting sail across pirate infested waters, she and Nesta Archeron hatch a plan to escape her arranged marriage before they arrive.

A gift for @alohaangels, whose kind words softened some of my grief.

Read on AO3

TW for depictions of sexual assault- reminiscing on the event, but it is graphic so please take care of yourself.

--

It was a mistake.

Surely some sort of joke. 

Gwyn’s eyes scanned the piece of paper before her, looking for some tell-tale clue that would mark the missive as some kind of cruel joke. Some nobleman’s idea of amusing himself with a ruined man’s daughter. 

Lady Berdara,

I have made my intentions plain to your guardian, and with her blessing, I intend to make them plain to you as well. I have been unable to stop thinking of you since the ball, hosted now several months previously. Your beauty follows me, an ever present guest I would not be rid of, distracting as your visage is. 

Allow me to speak freely—I would like to be wed with haste if possible. I have enclosed two tickets to Alsfeld for you and a lady of your choosing. Send word, make the passage, and I will meet you at the Port of Alsfeld.

Say yes. I will accept no other answer.

Yours, faithfully,

Prince Edward II

Gwyn looked up at Merrill with disbelief, immediately frustrated to find her guardian looking back with a look of supreme smugness. 

“I told you,” she said, rising from her chair to walk toward the window. Gwyn had been living under care since her family had been slaughtered, casualties of the ongoing and bloody war being fought by Edward the Senior. She’d been minor nobility, then, though part of the landed gentry all the same.

“This is a joke,” Gwyn replied, pushing away the rising tide of memories. She wished she had perished, then, and often cursed the unknown, faceless man who had spared her a bloody death right at the last second. 

“It’s not,” Merrill replied, smoothing out the folds of her heavy cobalt gown. “He was taken with you at the ball, and he’s taken with you now.”

“I have no dowry,” Gwyn reminded Merrill, who must have already thought of that. “I work for my keep.”

“Money was set aside for you. I have been safe guarding it,” Merrill told her. Gwyn didn’t know what to say to that—she’d been told for years that her father had squandered everything, that the only way to continue living under Merrill’s grace was to work. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You have an education, don’t you? Room? Board? Fine clothes and regular meals?”

“I…am grateful,” Gwyn forced herself to say, hardly grateful at all. She was angry—always so, so angry. The feeling was nothing new, just as swallowing it wasn’t, either. She knew all the right words, steps to a dance she’d long memorized. “I am so grateful for you.”

Gwyn wasn’t, though. Merrill had never been kind—a poor substitute for her already flighty mother. At least then she’d had Catrin.

Now she had no one and nothing but memories tainted in blood, smoke, and so much fear. And, apparently, a marriage she could not wiggle free from. Gwyn wracked her mind for anything that might save her—Edward was a prince twice her age who’d ordered her into several dances. His breath had smelled rank, his fingers tight and clammy, and he’d leaned in too close for her liking as he droned on and on about his many war victories.

Did he even know his family’s war was the reason she had to rely on the charity of others?

Gwyn doubted he cared. 

“What about his last wife?”

“The Catholic?” Merrill scoffed. It was a rumor, of course—meant to discredit a woman so he could have a divorce without upsetting the general populace that loved her so. “Locked in a convent, last I heard. She gave only daughters and  he needs sons.”

“I’m supposed to do that?” Gwyn gaped, blood turning to ice. She had to swallow against the torrent of memories rising through her, threatening to spill over the ornate cream rug in the form of her breakfast. She’d promised she wouldn’t—that a man would never again touch her like that, certainly not if she invited him to, and even that was questionable.

It seemed she had no choice. 

“You’ll be his wife,” Merrill said dismissively, clearly tired of the conversation. It was the longest they’d had in waking memory, which meant at any moment Merrill was going to give Gwyn a verbal order to do as she was told, and a silent order to shut her mouth and be grateful.

Gwyn had no gratitude left in her. Certainly not for a man who intended to use her and then discard her if he tired of her. 

“He has a wife—”

“He doesn’t,” Merrill snapped, tossing a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder. Was she bitter it wasn’t her? Gwyn would trade her. “Nesta Archeron has agreed to accompany you to Alsfeld and I expect you to go upstairs, pack appropriately, and smile at your good fortune. Not many men would consider marrying you given your past.”

“My past.” Gwyn dropped all pretense, her words hollow, voice flat. 

“Yes, Gwyneth, your past. You should be overjoyed that a man wants you at all, let alone one so esteemed as the prince.”

“You told him?” Gwyn felt betrayal clawing at her neck. “That wasn’t yours to share!”

“The dowry he demanded was impossible to meet,” Merrill sniffed, eyes icy and unforgiving. “He was entitled to less knowing you were ruined.”

Ruined.

Gwyn rose from the chair she’d been sitting in, skirts ruffling loudly in her ringing ears. How Gwyn hated when Merrill said that to her—as if she were little more than a lamp that had broken and not a whole person that had been stolen from.

She couldn’t speak—she knew she’d cry, her anger making a mockery of her. Inclining her head, Gwyn merely made her way through the parlor, past the servants she’d once been close with. They wouldn’t meet her gaze, though she swore their mouths twisted with pity. She was the last to know, as usual, and it showed. 

Making her way to her small bedroom, Gwyn flung herself onto the padded window seat to peer out at the sea. How long before she was on one of the ships in the harbor with only the wretched Nesta Archeron for company? She’d only met the woman once and Nesta had been so wildly unpleasant that Gwyn had immediately dismissed her without another word.

Now they’d be trapped aboard a ship together. Gwyn sighed, turning toward her dresser. She had a large carpet bag and a trunk—she’d put personal things in the bag and the rest in the trunk, assuming someone was going to rifle through the items in the trunk. Better to not give anything away.

Truthfully, Gwyn had very little. Merrill had never deigned to give her anything of value, always with the admonishment that she ought to be grateful. Gwyn’s gratitude died with Catrin, leaving behind only her rage. How a prince had found her fascinating enough to marry was beyond Gwyn—the night they’d danced, she’d been wearing one of Merrill’s gowns, promptly returned while it was still warm. 

What would he do when he realized she was practically a servant? Maybe it didn’t matter—perhaps he’d outfit her in finery and remind the populace that, technically, her father had died a decorated war hero. Nevermind he’d been cowering in his final moments, on his knees begging not for the lives of the daughters being dragged away by laughing soldiers, but his own.

Gwyn’s anger grew hotter. She threw her items in the trunk, not caring if they were wrinkled. She let it consume her, balling up gown after gown so she could throw them with force into the trunk until she felt a little calmer. Less fury. She reminded herself to breathe, the same exercises she’d once done with Catrin.

It had been Catrin who’d once been filled with anger and Gwyn who had peace. She’d find her sister, raging about some injustice, and remind her to breathe until they were both smiling again. Catrin’s rage had sent her running from the house to try and save the children next door—and she’d been the first of the two of them to die. Wherever she’d hidden them, however they’d escaped…Catrin refused to say.

Gwyn, trembling and scared, a mere three minutes younger though sometimes it felt like three years, had obeyed when Catrin ordered, don’t say a word!

“We can break you,” the soldier had laughed, reaching for his belt. Catrin had turned her head, arms held over her head by another soldier. She’d screamed and fought, writhing like a wild, desperate animal while Gwyn silently sobbed, watching—knowing she would be next.

Tell us, the soldier had ordered, turning to Gwyn.

Don’t, Catrin had ordered again, fiercer than before. They’d placed a blade to Catrin’s neck and demanded again. Gwyn had looked at her sister, but Catrin only widened her eyes.

“Be brave,” Catrin had whispered.

The last words ever spoken between them. They’d laughed as they cut her throat, and laughed louder as Gwyn screamed, dragged to the same bed her sister bled out on. Gwyn hadn’t been brave at all—she’d begged them to kill her, too.

And they would have, had that man not come kicking in with that lethal looking sword. Walking to her dresser, she found the cloak he’d draped over her folded up at the bottom. Throwing it away would have been the better thing to do, but in the aftermath of what had happened, she’d simply tossed it in the back of her wardrobe. Afterwards, she’d had it washed, unable to stand the smell of whatever cologne that man wore mingled with blood and sweat. She could have thrown it away then, too.

She picked it up, admiring the well-made fabric and the heavy, silver and cobalt clasp that would have kept it pinned around her neck. Gwyn hadn’t dared to wear it, but it felt…wrong…to be rid of it, now. It was a relic of the worst moment of her life. She hated that stranger, his face concealed by a mask, though what little she might have seen had been blurred by blood and tears. He’d carried her out after brutally, and mercilessly, slaughtering every man who’d come into her house. 

He’d tried to take her somewhere, but she’d started screaming again and so he’d left her huddled in a heap beneath a tree with a silver dagger laid at her bare feet. He hadn’t said a word, merely vanished back into the ether. Perhaps he’d been a long forgotten god come to seek vengeance. Or perhaps he’d simply been a mercenary unable to witness his brethern pillaging and raping. 

She’d never know. 

Still, sometimes she caught herself thinking about him, wondering where he was and why he’d intervened in the first place. Gwyn had the dagger, though she didn’t know how to use it, and tucked that into her bag along with a necklace that had belonged to Catrin she didn’t dare wear. She hadn’t been brave.

She didn’t deserve to.

Gwyn skipped dinner that night, which caused Merrill to rant through the halls about how spoiled and ungrateful she was. Gwyn blocked it out with a book, curled back in the window seat as she waited for the inevitable. She couldn’t sleep, chasing the sunrise with drooping eyelids. Merrill wasn’t far behind, bursting in with more energy than Gwyn was certain she’d ever had in her life. 

Gwyn had never liked the small city she’d been isolated in. It was just big enough to give the illusion of privacy but small enough that everyone knew everything. Busybodies to the very last, which meant that as Gwyn was paraded through the busy early morning, all eyes fell on her, even if just for a moment. They’d flit in her direction before fans extended and women began chattering behind them, their peals of laughter echoing over the sounds of horse drawn carriages and booming voices announcing the prices of fish and produce. 

Gwyn wanted to be the kind of person who’d stare back, eyes shooting daggers as she did. She wasn’t, though, even as her anger and humiliation seemed to reach a writhing fever pitch in her chest. She imagined all the things she’d say, should she have the opportunity—the way she’d cut them into ribbons until they felt as small as she did—but she kept her eyes trained on the muddy cobblestone streets before her. Causing a scene would only result in more problems for Gwyn, who always seemed to be blamed, regardless if something was actually her fault. Merrill simply did not like her, and resented being vaguely related to her father and therefore, responsible for her care. 

Gwyn might have liked the docks and the quieter bustle filled with mostly men who didn’t seem to care a single jot about her, were it not for the icy stare of Nesta Archeron. She was alone, standing on the curb with her arms crossed over her chest. 

Great.

Gwyn did look at Nesta, hoping her expression conveyed a do-not-try-it-with-me,but who knew how Nesta took it. Nesta was a Duke's daughter and came from wealth so obscene, Gwyn didn’t dare think about it. What horrible lord was waiting for her in Alsfeld—and who was worse, Gwyn mused privately.

It was fun to watch Merrill dip into a respectful bow while Nesta stared down her nose, unimpressed and maybe even bored by the whole display. “Lady Archeron,” Merrill demurred, looking as if she’d prefer to be anywhere else. “You’re looking well.”

“You don’t,” Nesta replied in that brutal way of hers. Gwyn had to bite back a laugh, reminding herself that once Merrill left, Nesta would turn that mannerless behavior on her. 

“Well,” Merrill said as the salty air tangled a strand of her hair. “Take care of yourself, Gwyneth. If you have need of me, please write.” Gwyn nodded, certain Merrill would never respond to any letter. This wasn’t goodbye—it was a washing of the hands. Merrill had done her duty and now she was free of it. 

“Remember duty,” Merrill added, perhaps guessing the slant of Gwyn’s angry thoughts. Nesta arched a brow but said nothing, lip curling over perfectly straight teeth as she watched Merrill flounce off.

“Her hat was ugly,” Nesta declared the moment Merrill was out of earshot. The own hat, perched neatly atop Nesta coiffed golden brown hair, was very fashionable with its light pink feather and the way it tilted ever so delicately. It paired well with the deep plum of her gown that seemed out of place right before the docks. Gwyn certainly felt underdressed in green, her gown from two seasons earlier and just a tad too big. She felt inadequate in new and frustrating ways.

“So is yours,” Gwyn snapped, stepping around Nesta as two burly armed, barrel chested sailors took her trunk toward a wooden ramp that led to the ship she supposed they would sail on.

Nesta blinked. “I told Elain it was ridiculous,” she grumbled, though she didn’t remove it. Nesta merely marched in step with Gwyn, following the men now charged with their care. Gwyn had expected a sharp tongued insult, not agreement.

“Why did you let her talk you into it?”

Nesta shrugged delicate shoulders, spine impossibly straight as she walked. She looked like the one who ought to be marrying a prince—not Gwyn. Gwyn looked like her maid at best, which annoyed her further. There was something she was missing to this whole arrangement, something that would come back to harm her before she pieced it all together. 

“She can be very bossy when she sets her mind to something,” Nesta said, as if Gwyn knew anything about the Archeron sisters. They were sheltered and spoiled, appearing in the city only when something grand was happening. They otherwise kept to their estate, though there were rumors about how wild the youngest of the three were.

She sounded like more interesting company than the scowling Nesta. One thing, Gwyn supposed, was how unafraid Nesta was to give orders.

“Take us to our cabin,” Nesta demanded the moment their feet were on the softly swaying deck. Two sailors exchanged a glance but otherwise said nothing at all—they merely gestured for the pair to follow them.

“We’re not to be disturbed,” Nesta began, her words seemingly well-practiced. “You may bring our meals to us directly, but otherwise no man is to enter our chamber.”

“Who would stop us?” one of the sailors asked, clearly bitter about being bossed around by a woman.

Gwyn’s own temper got the better of her. “I will.”

Whatever they saw on her face kept them from saying much more. Gwyn waited until they were taken into a large stateroom they were clearly meant to share. Nesta turned, and the sailor, guessing her irritation, threw up his palms in defense. “You can share, or you can sleep in the bunks with everyone else. Your choice, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed before slamming the door in his face. “Must you be so…” Gwyn trailed off, unsure what she even meant to say. Nesta understood, though.

“Because otherwise they think they can take liberties. That we’re helpless and soft and sweet—that we won’t say anything if they touch us. Now they know we’ll scream, and when we arrive at port, we’ll tell someone. They’ll think twice.”

“And with Merrill?” Gwyn demanded, arms crossed over her chest.

“Her presence offends me,” Nesta said with a shrug, as if it were a given. Gwyn couldn’t help but laugh, one hand on her stomach to keep herself from doubling over.

“Mine, too.”

“She thinks herself a great humanitarian, but she’s not. She made a lot of money taking you in, for all the good it did. Look at your dress,” Nesta said, reaching for Gwyn’s sleeve. Gwyn slapped her hand away, embarrassed and self-conscious.

“What are you talking about?”

Nesta stared for a moment, hand cradled to her chest. Those icy blue eyes seemed to be a little sad for only a moment before the emotion vanished, replaced with her usual steely gaze. “Lord Rhysand paid her a hefty stipend for your education. His father and your father were friends, I suppose.”

“No one…no one told me that,” Gwyn managed as anger and betrayal clawed up her throat. “I was working.”

So a Duke paid for Gwyn’s education, and her father had left an inheritance, all pocketed by Merrill. Gwyn turned for the door, ready to march off the ship and throttle Merrill but Nesta grabbed her wrist.

“There is no point. She’s not capable of shame.”

“So she gets away with it?” Gwyn demanded with outrage. “Does no one face consequences except me?”

“She doesn’t have to get away with it,” Nesta said slyly. “I overheard father talking, and he seems to think your marriage will elevate Merrill in a way few ladies ever achieve.”

“Of course it does,” Gwyn grumbled, sitting despondently on the floral patterned bed. “She probably orchestrated it herself.”

“I’m sure. That doesn’t mean you have to marry him,” Nesta continued, holding Gwyn’s stare. 

“He’s a prince—”

“So?” Nesta demanded. “When we arrive, simply say no and stay with me and my aunt. With the new laws that require a ladies consent, you can simply decline.”

“He’s not just some spoiled lordling,” Gwyn whispered, though the idea was spreading through her like wildfire. 

“He’s only a man,” Nesta replied, sitting beside her. “He’s not a god.”

But Gwyn knew what men could do when they didn’t get what they wanted—when they felt thwarted, especially by a lesser woman. It would become a matter of principle to punish her. To control her. He had a navy at his disposal, an army willing to kill on command, and more gold than anyone in the realm. If he wanted to find her, he would. 

And when he did, he’d punish her for daring to defy him.

Still.

The idea had roots.

—-

Azriel heard the sound of boots echoing off swaying wood before he saw Cassian in the doorway. His friend flashed a grin, arms crossed over his chest.

“Ship sailed this afternoon.”

Azriel shifted in his chair, boots reclined on his desk while he toyed with his favorite dagger absently. Turning his gaze from Cassian, he couldn’t help but smile. 

“Armed?”

“Barely,” Cassian replied, his amusement plain. “It’s a merchant ship.”

“Whose?” Azriel didn’t want to make too many enemies of the merchant class, some of whom paid money for safe passage and protection from other privateers. 

“Archeron,” Cassian said. Azriel frowned, though it changed nothing. Rhys wasn’t one of them—not really. He could make his demands, could provide them with funding, could play pirate lord when it suited him, but he wasn’t out there day to day.

He didn’t know how hard Azriel had worked to organize this ambush. How he’d intercepted that letter. The spying he’d done, the dominoes set into motion. It was now or it was never. The walls of the palace were impenetrable, even to him. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Azriel decided. It didn’t. He’d rather beg forgiveness than ask permission—Rhys would do the same, were he in Azriel’s position. “Sink the ship.”

“Aye, Captain,” Cassian said, his grin returning.

Azriel’s gaze turned toward the window overlooking the sea. With a soft exhale, he smiled, too. 

Soon.

[genshinimpactresources]

Genshin Impact | Roses and Muskets | Cutscenes

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