just checking in
Dec. 26th, 2023 08:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lesbocannibalDearly Departed and Batty Beauties,
Here lies Maggie. She has returned with another fic for Ladies Bingo 2023-2024! This is an OC/canon fic for (link NSFW) Some Sword/Some Play, a wonderful little sexy IF where you can customize your and your love interests' pronouns and anatomy. It's wonderfully trans inclusive and has many possibilities! The Lady of the Meats highly recommends it. She played it 2 years and a half ago, at this point, and has been upset about its lack of fandom ever since... so here is her solution. Unfortunately, her OC is not an expanded version of the original game's PC, that would be far too simple. Instead, she is Vespertine Mircalla Conchita, the woman of a mansion in a state vaguely inspired by 1870s Styria (taking cues from the legendary lesbian vampire novella, Carmilla). Previously, she was the leader of a cannibalistic cult which engaged in ritual human sacrifice, and she met Roan when he was hired by the fed-up townspeople who had had just a few too many innocents taken and eaten by Vesper's cult. He entered her castle under false pretenses, found her weakness, and mortally wounded Vesper: she survived, however, and swore to get revenge. This set off a years-long rivalry where the Lady showed up at balls representing her noble family and slunk away to fight (or fuck) Roan, depending on the occasion... the two developed a mutual respect, and neither was obligated to kill the other, so they became rivals... then Vesper burnt down her castle and escaped to a new mansion with no cultists or servants. So, to say the very least, they have a history.
Anyways, she's talked far too much for a ladiesbingo fill post. Without further ado, here's the AO3 link: just checking in.
Roan stirred in a dungeon. Panic did not arise easily to his mind. The second he was out of his chloroform-induced fog, he thought, Again, Vesper? Seriously?
He clenched his fists, flexed them open. He was chained up to the wall by one wrist, and he’d been propped up leaning against it. All his clothing had been left on, thankfully, and he had enough slack in the chain to sit on the ground—not that he’d want to. He reached for his sword to, of course, discover an empty scabbard. Why would his kidnapper, his lovely Mirca, leave him with any implement that could be used for escape?
Footsteps echoed across the stone walls and Lady Vespertine Mircalla Conchita, in all her glory, swept down the spiral staircase. Her crimson hoop skirt fluttered around her legs and Roan caught a glimpse of her ankle before she dropped her skirts. In one hand was a candle in a small black dish, the only source of light in the room. The hot wax was almost about to drip down her hand, and Roan made no effort to warn her about it, instead only stared at her with half-lidded eyes.
She came closer. Roan should’ve tried to get away, but he didn’t feel like it. He stared Vesper down, and he swore he saw a little tremble in her step. She’s never scared, really, which infuriates him sometimes, but sometimes she will get jittery, her entire face will go red and her tongue will loll out of her mouth with perverse satisfaction. She looked like she was getting shades of it now, as her hand, the one holding the melting candle, shook softly.
“Hey,” she said, softly, tilting her head at him. She was a tall woman, taller than Roan, anyway. Her hair hung down in long strings in front of her face, straggly spider legs dropping from her updo. Her teeth were black when she smiled, they matched her completely voided eyes, the ones that disappeared into the darkness of her dungeon. Roan felt dizzy and sick at how beautiful she was, lording her presence over him, and with how much he wanted to toss her bodily and brutally off that pedestal—dominate her in the corner of a party, tell her what to do in front of all her courtiers, pin her to the ground in a duel…
But right now, he felt helpless and vulnerable. “Why am I here?”
“I was just wondering if you were doing okay, I heard you’ve been overwhelmed lately…”
He started to answer without thinking—”You’re right… I’ve been stressed, especially since—”
… Then he stopped. “I know you didn’t kidnap me just to ask how I’m doing.”
“I care about you!” When did she get on the floor? Her skirts were spreading around her, making her thin upper body look even smaller. She propped her chin up in her hands and looked at him with her big, shiny black eyes.
“Then stop FUCKING KIDNAPPING ME!”
“But you looked so cute and vulnerable and I couldn’t help it! You don’t respond to my letters! If you responded to my letters I wouldn’t have to do this!” She sniffed and her upper lip trembled. Roan couldn’t stay mad at her. He knelt down next to her and cupped her chin in his hand. “Please don’t cry, lovely.”
She snuggled into his touch, wrapping her hand around his, pressing gentle kisses to his fingertips. Her black lipstick rubbed off on his skin. “Is this a truce?” She started to nibble on his fingers, and Roan suddenly remembered her cannibalistic proclivities and removed his hand from her.
“Yes. Sure. For now. If you unchain me and give me back my sword, I’ll have dinner with you—”
“Oh, joy! ” Vesper squealed, ricocheting to her feet. A key appeared, sliding out of her long sleeve, and Roan was free in a moment. She grabbed onto his arm and dragged him up, putting her hand on his bicep. “I’ve been wanting to have dinner with you for ages! I keep inviting you, but you’re always busy… or asleep… or on a date with a girl that’s not me. Say, Armiger, how do you feel about—”
He let her continue her chatter as he led her up the spiral stairs, choosing not to correct her accusations. Roan hadn’t even looked at another girl since Vesper became his nemesis. He walked through her own mansion as if he lived here, sliding his sword out from a particularly long vase, where she always hid it. He felt a rush of relief when it was safe in his sheath, and he rewarded Vespertine with an arm around her. His fingers on her waist, over the boning of her bodice. She giggled—it erupted into a snort halfway through—and put her hand on his chest.
The Lady’s mansion was much smaller than her previous castle, but still luxurious nonetheless. There were no servants here, notably. She was smart for that. No one could ever understand her, not like Roan. Her former attendants never had her best interest at heart.
Roan had never been jealous of her. Not of her fine wine, her overdetailed clothes, her devoted worshippers. No, he saw how much they all suffocated her—the expectations of so many people—and he was perfectly happy with his simple linen and leather and his lonesome small house.
The table was already set when the two of them arrived in the dining hall. Vesper flitted around and took the covers off of the dishes. “I hope you’re grateful! I have no servants anymore, so I cooked this all myself.” She unveiled apple strudel, fresh bread, and what looked like beef stew— looked like , because she said, “A fighter, this one was. He didn’t go down quietly—oh, but his flesh will taste all the better, because of what I saw him doing to his poor little daughter once I broke in to kill him…” Her hands shook, barely perceptible.
“A fitting dispatch, to be inside someone his own age.” He looked at his plate. “Is this poisoned?”
“What?! No…”
“You slipped something in my food at Duke Humboldt’s party.”
Vesper’s hands clenched into fists and her face went red. “Okay, it wasn’t just something— I’d been tailoring that for a very specific purpose, and it did its job, okay?!” Then she smiled, exposing her black teeth. “Oh, it was so beautiful to watch. You got more and more confused, hazier and hazier, as you got so fucking horny and you didn’t know why. And when you pinned me down and fucked me that night, you were gentle but ardent—confused but passionate, like a loyal attack dog.”
“Shut up.” Roan teased the food with his fork. “You’re proving my point.”
Vesper scowled. “I assure you, it is not poisoned. Oh, for God’s sake, here—“ She hopped up on the chestnut wood table, skirts settling after a moment of bounce. Her white hands were on his now, guiding the fork up to her mouth. She rocked her chin up, opened her mouth to allow entrance—
“You’re disgusting.”
“I know,” she tittered, the black that stained her lips and teeth beginning to drip down her chin along with drool and gravy. Her eyes followed the fork upwards—she wasn’t even looking at Roan, as the metal slipped past her sharp teeth. She chewed slowly, crunching at a small bone that had been left in the tender meat. Her hand tightened on Roan’s, and then she swooped to put her lips on his, passing the bone into his mouth before he could protest.
He spat it onto the tablecloth. “Brat.”
“Are you happy?” she asked, her voice lilting. A tiny shiver ripped its way up her spine and shoulders, making her tilt her head to the side. She smiled, pulling her lips back over her teeth like a dog’s snarl. Her fingers went to the back of Roan’s neck, ghosting along it like spider’s legs.
“No, I’m hurt,” Roan said, his voice steeped in sarcasm. “Might have to kiss me better.”
“Gotcha!” Vesper giggled, then snorted, her face going red. She grasped Roan’s chin, squishing his cheeks together, then locked her lips to his.
He pinched her nose shut. She struggled, but his other hand on the back of her neck kept her in place until her thrashing stopped. Her pale eyelashes fluttered against his face.
“Submit,” he growled into her panting maw.
“Meanie…” she rattled, her face turning purple.
“Submit to me.”
“I c-c-can’t breathe—!” Panic seized Vesper’s eyes. Roan released her to a flurry of coughing. She looked up, woozy and dazed. “Please…”
“That’s more like it.” He punched Vesper in the stomach, bunching the tablecloth where she buckled back, sending silverware clanking against each other.
“We’re in my mansion,” she whispered as she regained consciousness.
“I may be on your property, but you are my property. Now go sit across from me. Let’s eat.”
On shaky legs, she pushed herself off the table, straightening the tablecloth without even asking. Roan allowed himself a smile that exposed one silver canine. He disassembled his meat with surgical precision. “The food is cold now, because of you.”
“Sorry,” Vesper sang, irreverent. When Roan looked up, he realized she wasn’t even eating, just slumped with her chin in her hand, staring at him. Her face was red again, shoulders twitching.
“Are you rubbing yourself?”
“Noooooo…” She pulled her right arm up and slammed it down flat on the table, jostling the silverware again. “Seriously! No! Not at the dinner table! That’s so icky!”
“You’ve done worse at the Duke’s parties.”
“I…” She hesitated. “Well, it’s different, then. This is my mansion. She deserves a modicum of respect.” Vesper nodded, approvingly. It took Roan a second to register her gendering a building. He didn’t understand it, but it seemed important to her. As he watched, she bent her head low to slurp up some of her stew, the sauce landing in her hair. Messy girl. His messy girl.
“Fair enough, I suppose.”
“It was reaaaallly hot when you started to cut off my air supply,” Vesper said, with her mouth full.
“That got you off? God, you’re disgusting.” He smiled when that made Vesper giggle. It was like a joke they both were in on. Through a mouthful of food, she said, “I wouldn’t stay with you if I didn’t love all the brutality you subject me to. Obviously, idiot.”
A twinge of peace between them. It settled for only a moment before Vesper roughly started to rip her meat apart, knife squeaking on the nice porcelain, the plate adorned with a red-ink image of a human heart. Roan cringed at the noise, standing to lean across the table—“No, no, no. Let me do that for you.” He was halfway through cutting her food into bite-size pieces when he looked into her face. Smug, her mouth raised in a closed-lipped smile. She’d done that on purpose.
“My Mirca, will you ever stop annoying me like this?”
“No. Never.”
“Good. I hope you annoy me for the rest of time.”
Vesper snorted and chunks of apple flew out of her nose. She wiped her face off with her hand.
“For a court lady, you are undignified.”
“For a greasy soldier, you sure are uppity,” she retorted. Then she paused, her gaze sliding to the side in the way Roan knew heralded vulnerable truth. “It’s… my own rebellion, of sorts. Being away from them, those assholes who raised me—who watched my every move, I should say, controlled my food intake—made me into—into this—“ She stared at her plate, a shiver of guilt overtaking her eyes, before it passed as soon as it started. “It doesn’t matter. But I don’t have to follow their protocol, anymore. Their rules, their etiquette. I can do as I please. I can grow whatever flowers I want in my garden, and no one will stop me!” Ever-theatrical, she thrust her spoon into the air with raving delight, before scowling at Roan’s chuckle. “Are you laughing at me?”
He stilled his mirth, a hand on his chin. “You’re… amusing. No, wrong word. You’re powerful. I used to think you were an insufferable brat, but it’s your response to what you’ve endured. You’ve earned that right.”
“Oh. Oh!” She looked into her plate, mollified. “Thank you?”
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re still an insufferable brat.”
“I’ll have your head!” Then both of them burst out in laughter, and busied themselves with their food in the wake of blossoming emotion.
Roan savored his mouthful of stew. “You’re a good cook.”
“Thank you!” Vesper preened.
“Perhaps a better cook than a swordswoman.”
The pride sloughed off her face. “You can never give a regular compliment…”
Roan examined his nails. He loved riling her up. “You really should be seeing me for extra lessons. Your fades are too hyperactive, you expend so much extra energy on your little bounces and twitches. Tighten up your style, make it smoother, less erratic—you will win. Perhaps not against me, but against a man like the Duke.”
“Okay, Master,” Vesper said, sticking her tongue out. Roan crossed his legs to hide how hearing that title made him feel. “The Duke is a little squishy dough-man, a fool who chases his own tail. I am above dueling him.”
“You have yet to prove that to me.”
“I hold my own against you!”
“You are a squirming mess, like a raccoon trapped in a sack. You flail and hurt me, but in the process, you hurt yourself.” She wasn’t, of course. Lady Vespertine Mircalla Conchita—or, in dueling circles, Ves— was world-class and almost as good as Roan Armiger. But her technique still left much to be desired, and to Roan’s trained eye, she essentially was a scared wild animal.
“Are we still talking about swordplay?”
“As I often tell you, many of the same rules apply to swordplay as they do life.” Roan closed his eyes. “You have your own charm, Lady,” he managed to concede. “Though you are unrefined, you’re also… unrestrained. A thread of passion runs through you, ugly and laid bare, yet beautiful in its own way. Be careful—don’t let it consume you.”
“You’re full of shit,” Vesper retorted. She spat into her napkin. “Pretentious little prick. I think you could learn a thing or two from me.”
“Pardon?” He recoiled.
Vesper saw his moment of weakness, and a wicked smile spread across her face. She lunged forward, just as in swordplay, pressing her hand against the tabletop. “You’re so uptight. You rely too much on theory. Books… they’re important, but they can’t teach you the full breadth of anything, much less something as experiential as swordplay. I thought you were supposed to be the greasy, simple soldier, why are you getting so pretentious all of a sudden? You’re like an aristocrat in a duelist’s leathers.”
And Roan was forced to admit that she was right. She had won against him with unexpected, foolhardy moves that only a stupidly brave woman with nothing to lose would attempt. Though she flung herself headlong into idiocy, she always landed her blows. She was too strong not to.
“Also sex!” she added brightly. “You can’t learn about that from books! That’s all experience, baby!”
“Just when I think you’ve said something important and poignant, you ruin it like that, you pervert…”
After the meal, Vesper scraped around the last bits of sauce on her plate idly with her spoon. Roan passed her a piece of bread to soak it up, which she accepted gratefully.
He leaned back in his chair, satiated. “Thank you for the meal. One day, I will cook for you, I think. Your kitchen is bigger than mine, I could do it here. But I don’t think you’ll be able to handle the curry, to be honest. There’s a certain spice level it’s got to be at for authenticity.”
“Try me.” Vesper stuck out her tongue.
“So, are you going to lock me back up in that dungeon of yours, my Mirca?”
“No…” She sighed, as if it was an admission of guilt. “Like my mansion, remember? You deserve some respect. Even if I hate your guts, even if I think you’re a pretentious fool… no, that won’t do. Come. Sleep in my bed.”
“Isn’t it early?”
“I am tired.” Her hand balled up a napkin. Roan looked at her face, noted the hollows beneath her eyes. “And it’s too late for sparring. Truly, what else is there to do? Sew? Clean? Read? Maybe worthy activities in solitude, but with you… I’d rather sit in our—in my bed and talk. Or fuck, if you’re up for it.”
“No,” Roan decided. “You’re tired.”
The ghost of a smile flitted across Vesper’s face, before she stood, her chair scraping back on the tile floor. She collected the plates and disappeared off to the kitchen, then returned far too quickly.
“Either you wash your dishes impossibly fast, or you just dumped them into the basin.”
Vesper flapped her hand, making a face. “Eh, they’re soaking. Shall we?” She offered her arm. Roan laid his hand on her bicep and led her through darkened hallways, lined with stained glass, and up to her own boudoir.
Red velvet was her favorite cake and her favorite fabric, too. The pillows, the upholstery, the drapes—they were all red velvet, maybe with some black tassels as accent. Her red dress disappeared into the curtains in the dim lighting—only a few candles lit the room.
Roan unbuckled his sword belt, letting it fall to the ground. He took up his spot in the chestnut wood chair, reclining with his legs wide apart. He put his elbow on the armrest, resting his chin in his hand. Vesper was starting to take her earrings and jewelry off now, signaling an imminent state of undress, and he wanted to watch the show. As he gazed, she reached out and pinched one candle out, dimming the room a tiny bit more.
Turned away from him, she undid her finishing belt, placing it on top of her dresser. Then she began to undo the buttons of her overdress, slipping it off over her head. She hung it up, humming, and adjusted her hair. The common—attractive—displays that a femme exhibited once she thought her butch wasn’t watching. Then she reached behind her, untying her corset and exhaling with relief once it loosened, unhooking the busk with deft fingers. She reached without looking to open a drawer, missing the knob once but grabbing it the second time. As the wood slid on its rails, it offered Roan a glimpse of Vesper’s other corsets. One too gorgeous to conceal beneath a dress in fanciful red brocade, a black satin one with a frankly violent hip spring. Gingerly, she laid the pale linen one she’d just removed down next to it.
Roan started to undress himself once her corset was off, though he kept an eye on her. In the time it took Vesper to remove her hoop skirt and chemise, he’d already slipped out of his clothes and into his nightshirt—he did have his own drawer in her bedroom, he’d taken it without asking. Vesper turned around soon after, in her own lacy black nightgown, brushing out her hair. “I bet you're happy with your lifestyle at times like these.” She scoffed. “It is so difficult to be an overdressed, extravagant femme.”
“Sure, it’s difficult. It’s beautiful, though.” He stepped closer to her, gave her a kiss on the cheek. Vesper preened as she pulled her hair into a single long braid over one shoulder. She offered Roan her tin of toothpaste, which he accepted.
After rubbing a mysterious cream into her face, Vesper pulled back her red velvet bedspread, then eased herself onto the mattress. Turning to look over her shoulder, she asked—“Tie me up?”
“Of course.” Roan took the red ropes from where they hung above her nightstand. The bed creaked when he leaned into it as well. He handled her body with grace, pulling her arms, bent, behind her back and loosely binding her forearms together. Vesper giggled, and it turned into a snort halfway through. The position of her arms forced her to roll over, pressing her cheek against the pillow.
“You’re so gentle,” she said, almost wondering. “No one else has ever treated me like this before…” She trailed off. Roan pressed his lips together. Vesper was staring off into the distance, so he tapped her shoulder.
“This is the quick-release end.” He placed one end of the rope in her hand. “Pull it and the entire tie comes undone.”
“I know, you’ve tied me up like this hundreds of times…”
“It bears repeating.” On that note, he leaned over to the nightstand and blew out the candles on it, plunging them into darkness, except for the moonlight shining through the stained-glass window.
“Goodnight,” Vesper said into her pillow. Roan waited until her breathing slowed to stroke her hair back and make sure the rope around her arms was loose enough, then allowed himself to close his eyes.
Here lies Maggie. She has returned with another fic for Ladies Bingo 2023-2024! This is an OC/canon fic for (link NSFW) Some Sword/Some Play, a wonderful little sexy IF where you can customize your and your love interests' pronouns and anatomy. It's wonderfully trans inclusive and has many possibilities! The Lady of the Meats highly recommends it. She played it 2 years and a half ago, at this point, and has been upset about its lack of fandom ever since... so here is her solution. Unfortunately, her OC is not an expanded version of the original game's PC, that would be far too simple. Instead, she is Vespertine Mircalla Conchita, the woman of a mansion in a state vaguely inspired by 1870s Styria (taking cues from the legendary lesbian vampire novella, Carmilla). Previously, she was the leader of a cannibalistic cult which engaged in ritual human sacrifice, and she met Roan when he was hired by the fed-up townspeople who had had just a few too many innocents taken and eaten by Vesper's cult. He entered her castle under false pretenses, found her weakness, and mortally wounded Vesper: she survived, however, and swore to get revenge. This set off a years-long rivalry where the Lady showed up at balls representing her noble family and slunk away to fight (or fuck) Roan, depending on the occasion... the two developed a mutual respect, and neither was obligated to kill the other, so they became rivals... then Vesper burnt down her castle and escaped to a new mansion with no cultists or servants. So, to say the very least, they have a history.
Anyways, she's talked far too much for a ladiesbingo fill post. Without further ado, here's the AO3 link: just checking in.
Roan stirred in a dungeon. Panic did not arise easily to his mind. The second he was out of his chloroform-induced fog, he thought, Again, Vesper? Seriously?
He clenched his fists, flexed them open. He was chained up to the wall by one wrist, and he’d been propped up leaning against it. All his clothing had been left on, thankfully, and he had enough slack in the chain to sit on the ground—not that he’d want to. He reached for his sword to, of course, discover an empty scabbard. Why would his kidnapper, his lovely Mirca, leave him with any implement that could be used for escape?
Footsteps echoed across the stone walls and Lady Vespertine Mircalla Conchita, in all her glory, swept down the spiral staircase. Her crimson hoop skirt fluttered around her legs and Roan caught a glimpse of her ankle before she dropped her skirts. In one hand was a candle in a small black dish, the only source of light in the room. The hot wax was almost about to drip down her hand, and Roan made no effort to warn her about it, instead only stared at her with half-lidded eyes.
She came closer. Roan should’ve tried to get away, but he didn’t feel like it. He stared Vesper down, and he swore he saw a little tremble in her step. She’s never scared, really, which infuriates him sometimes, but sometimes she will get jittery, her entire face will go red and her tongue will loll out of her mouth with perverse satisfaction. She looked like she was getting shades of it now, as her hand, the one holding the melting candle, shook softly.
“Hey,” she said, softly, tilting her head at him. She was a tall woman, taller than Roan, anyway. Her hair hung down in long strings in front of her face, straggly spider legs dropping from her updo. Her teeth were black when she smiled, they matched her completely voided eyes, the ones that disappeared into the darkness of her dungeon. Roan felt dizzy and sick at how beautiful she was, lording her presence over him, and with how much he wanted to toss her bodily and brutally off that pedestal—dominate her in the corner of a party, tell her what to do in front of all her courtiers, pin her to the ground in a duel…
But right now, he felt helpless and vulnerable. “Why am I here?”
“I was just wondering if you were doing okay, I heard you’ve been overwhelmed lately…”
He started to answer without thinking—”You’re right… I’ve been stressed, especially since—”
… Then he stopped. “I know you didn’t kidnap me just to ask how I’m doing.”
“I care about you!” When did she get on the floor? Her skirts were spreading around her, making her thin upper body look even smaller. She propped her chin up in her hands and looked at him with her big, shiny black eyes.
“Then stop FUCKING KIDNAPPING ME!”
“But you looked so cute and vulnerable and I couldn’t help it! You don’t respond to my letters! If you responded to my letters I wouldn’t have to do this!” She sniffed and her upper lip trembled. Roan couldn’t stay mad at her. He knelt down next to her and cupped her chin in his hand. “Please don’t cry, lovely.”
She snuggled into his touch, wrapping her hand around his, pressing gentle kisses to his fingertips. Her black lipstick rubbed off on his skin. “Is this a truce?” She started to nibble on his fingers, and Roan suddenly remembered her cannibalistic proclivities and removed his hand from her.
“Yes. Sure. For now. If you unchain me and give me back my sword, I’ll have dinner with you—”
“Oh, joy! ” Vesper squealed, ricocheting to her feet. A key appeared, sliding out of her long sleeve, and Roan was free in a moment. She grabbed onto his arm and dragged him up, putting her hand on his bicep. “I’ve been wanting to have dinner with you for ages! I keep inviting you, but you’re always busy… or asleep… or on a date with a girl that’s not me. Say, Armiger, how do you feel about—”
He let her continue her chatter as he led her up the spiral stairs, choosing not to correct her accusations. Roan hadn’t even looked at another girl since Vesper became his nemesis. He walked through her own mansion as if he lived here, sliding his sword out from a particularly long vase, where she always hid it. He felt a rush of relief when it was safe in his sheath, and he rewarded Vespertine with an arm around her. His fingers on her waist, over the boning of her bodice. She giggled—it erupted into a snort halfway through—and put her hand on his chest.
The Lady’s mansion was much smaller than her previous castle, but still luxurious nonetheless. There were no servants here, notably. She was smart for that. No one could ever understand her, not like Roan. Her former attendants never had her best interest at heart.
Roan had never been jealous of her. Not of her fine wine, her overdetailed clothes, her devoted worshippers. No, he saw how much they all suffocated her—the expectations of so many people—and he was perfectly happy with his simple linen and leather and his lonesome small house.
The table was already set when the two of them arrived in the dining hall. Vesper flitted around and took the covers off of the dishes. “I hope you’re grateful! I have no servants anymore, so I cooked this all myself.” She unveiled apple strudel, fresh bread, and what looked like beef stew— looked like , because she said, “A fighter, this one was. He didn’t go down quietly—oh, but his flesh will taste all the better, because of what I saw him doing to his poor little daughter once I broke in to kill him…” Her hands shook, barely perceptible.
“A fitting dispatch, to be inside someone his own age.” He looked at his plate. “Is this poisoned?”
“What?! No…”
“You slipped something in my food at Duke Humboldt’s party.”
Vesper’s hands clenched into fists and her face went red. “Okay, it wasn’t just something— I’d been tailoring that for a very specific purpose, and it did its job, okay?!” Then she smiled, exposing her black teeth. “Oh, it was so beautiful to watch. You got more and more confused, hazier and hazier, as you got so fucking horny and you didn’t know why. And when you pinned me down and fucked me that night, you were gentle but ardent—confused but passionate, like a loyal attack dog.”
“Shut up.” Roan teased the food with his fork. “You’re proving my point.”
Vesper scowled. “I assure you, it is not poisoned. Oh, for God’s sake, here—“ She hopped up on the chestnut wood table, skirts settling after a moment of bounce. Her white hands were on his now, guiding the fork up to her mouth. She rocked her chin up, opened her mouth to allow entrance—
“You’re disgusting.”
“I know,” she tittered, the black that stained her lips and teeth beginning to drip down her chin along with drool and gravy. Her eyes followed the fork upwards—she wasn’t even looking at Roan, as the metal slipped past her sharp teeth. She chewed slowly, crunching at a small bone that had been left in the tender meat. Her hand tightened on Roan’s, and then she swooped to put her lips on his, passing the bone into his mouth before he could protest.
He spat it onto the tablecloth. “Brat.”
“Are you happy?” she asked, her voice lilting. A tiny shiver ripped its way up her spine and shoulders, making her tilt her head to the side. She smiled, pulling her lips back over her teeth like a dog’s snarl. Her fingers went to the back of Roan’s neck, ghosting along it like spider’s legs.
“No, I’m hurt,” Roan said, his voice steeped in sarcasm. “Might have to kiss me better.”
“Gotcha!” Vesper giggled, then snorted, her face going red. She grasped Roan’s chin, squishing his cheeks together, then locked her lips to his.
He pinched her nose shut. She struggled, but his other hand on the back of her neck kept her in place until her thrashing stopped. Her pale eyelashes fluttered against his face.
“Submit,” he growled into her panting maw.
“Meanie…” she rattled, her face turning purple.
“Submit to me.”
“I c-c-can’t breathe—!” Panic seized Vesper’s eyes. Roan released her to a flurry of coughing. She looked up, woozy and dazed. “Please…”
“That’s more like it.” He punched Vesper in the stomach, bunching the tablecloth where she buckled back, sending silverware clanking against each other.
“We’re in my mansion,” she whispered as she regained consciousness.
“I may be on your property, but you are my property. Now go sit across from me. Let’s eat.”
On shaky legs, she pushed herself off the table, straightening the tablecloth without even asking. Roan allowed himself a smile that exposed one silver canine. He disassembled his meat with surgical precision. “The food is cold now, because of you.”
“Sorry,” Vesper sang, irreverent. When Roan looked up, he realized she wasn’t even eating, just slumped with her chin in her hand, staring at him. Her face was red again, shoulders twitching.
“Are you rubbing yourself?”
“Noooooo…” She pulled her right arm up and slammed it down flat on the table, jostling the silverware again. “Seriously! No! Not at the dinner table! That’s so icky!”
“You’ve done worse at the Duke’s parties.”
“I…” She hesitated. “Well, it’s different, then. This is my mansion. She deserves a modicum of respect.” Vesper nodded, approvingly. It took Roan a second to register her gendering a building. He didn’t understand it, but it seemed important to her. As he watched, she bent her head low to slurp up some of her stew, the sauce landing in her hair. Messy girl. His messy girl.
“Fair enough, I suppose.”
“It was reaaaallly hot when you started to cut off my air supply,” Vesper said, with her mouth full.
“That got you off? God, you’re disgusting.” He smiled when that made Vesper giggle. It was like a joke they both were in on. Through a mouthful of food, she said, “I wouldn’t stay with you if I didn’t love all the brutality you subject me to. Obviously, idiot.”
A twinge of peace between them. It settled for only a moment before Vesper roughly started to rip her meat apart, knife squeaking on the nice porcelain, the plate adorned with a red-ink image of a human heart. Roan cringed at the noise, standing to lean across the table—“No, no, no. Let me do that for you.” He was halfway through cutting her food into bite-size pieces when he looked into her face. Smug, her mouth raised in a closed-lipped smile. She’d done that on purpose.
“My Mirca, will you ever stop annoying me like this?”
“No. Never.”
“Good. I hope you annoy me for the rest of time.”
Vesper snorted and chunks of apple flew out of her nose. She wiped her face off with her hand.
“For a court lady, you are undignified.”
“For a greasy soldier, you sure are uppity,” she retorted. Then she paused, her gaze sliding to the side in the way Roan knew heralded vulnerable truth. “It’s… my own rebellion, of sorts. Being away from them, those assholes who raised me—who watched my every move, I should say, controlled my food intake—made me into—into this—“ She stared at her plate, a shiver of guilt overtaking her eyes, before it passed as soon as it started. “It doesn’t matter. But I don’t have to follow their protocol, anymore. Their rules, their etiquette. I can do as I please. I can grow whatever flowers I want in my garden, and no one will stop me!” Ever-theatrical, she thrust her spoon into the air with raving delight, before scowling at Roan’s chuckle. “Are you laughing at me?”
He stilled his mirth, a hand on his chin. “You’re… amusing. No, wrong word. You’re powerful. I used to think you were an insufferable brat, but it’s your response to what you’ve endured. You’ve earned that right.”
“Oh. Oh!” She looked into her plate, mollified. “Thank you?”
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re still an insufferable brat.”
“I’ll have your head!” Then both of them burst out in laughter, and busied themselves with their food in the wake of blossoming emotion.
Roan savored his mouthful of stew. “You’re a good cook.”
“Thank you!” Vesper preened.
“Perhaps a better cook than a swordswoman.”
The pride sloughed off her face. “You can never give a regular compliment…”
Roan examined his nails. He loved riling her up. “You really should be seeing me for extra lessons. Your fades are too hyperactive, you expend so much extra energy on your little bounces and twitches. Tighten up your style, make it smoother, less erratic—you will win. Perhaps not against me, but against a man like the Duke.”
“Okay, Master,” Vesper said, sticking her tongue out. Roan crossed his legs to hide how hearing that title made him feel. “The Duke is a little squishy dough-man, a fool who chases his own tail. I am above dueling him.”
“You have yet to prove that to me.”
“I hold my own against you!”
“You are a squirming mess, like a raccoon trapped in a sack. You flail and hurt me, but in the process, you hurt yourself.” She wasn’t, of course. Lady Vespertine Mircalla Conchita—or, in dueling circles, Ves— was world-class and almost as good as Roan Armiger. But her technique still left much to be desired, and to Roan’s trained eye, she essentially was a scared wild animal.
“Are we still talking about swordplay?”
“As I often tell you, many of the same rules apply to swordplay as they do life.” Roan closed his eyes. “You have your own charm, Lady,” he managed to concede. “Though you are unrefined, you’re also… unrestrained. A thread of passion runs through you, ugly and laid bare, yet beautiful in its own way. Be careful—don’t let it consume you.”
“You’re full of shit,” Vesper retorted. She spat into her napkin. “Pretentious little prick. I think you could learn a thing or two from me.”
“Pardon?” He recoiled.
Vesper saw his moment of weakness, and a wicked smile spread across her face. She lunged forward, just as in swordplay, pressing her hand against the tabletop. “You’re so uptight. You rely too much on theory. Books… they’re important, but they can’t teach you the full breadth of anything, much less something as experiential as swordplay. I thought you were supposed to be the greasy, simple soldier, why are you getting so pretentious all of a sudden? You’re like an aristocrat in a duelist’s leathers.”
And Roan was forced to admit that she was right. She had won against him with unexpected, foolhardy moves that only a stupidly brave woman with nothing to lose would attempt. Though she flung herself headlong into idiocy, she always landed her blows. She was too strong not to.
“Also sex!” she added brightly. “You can’t learn about that from books! That’s all experience, baby!”
“Just when I think you’ve said something important and poignant, you ruin it like that, you pervert…”
After the meal, Vesper scraped around the last bits of sauce on her plate idly with her spoon. Roan passed her a piece of bread to soak it up, which she accepted gratefully.
He leaned back in his chair, satiated. “Thank you for the meal. One day, I will cook for you, I think. Your kitchen is bigger than mine, I could do it here. But I don’t think you’ll be able to handle the curry, to be honest. There’s a certain spice level it’s got to be at for authenticity.”
“Try me.” Vesper stuck out her tongue.
“So, are you going to lock me back up in that dungeon of yours, my Mirca?”
“No…” She sighed, as if it was an admission of guilt. “Like my mansion, remember? You deserve some respect. Even if I hate your guts, even if I think you’re a pretentious fool… no, that won’t do. Come. Sleep in my bed.”
“Isn’t it early?”
“I am tired.” Her hand balled up a napkin. Roan looked at her face, noted the hollows beneath her eyes. “And it’s too late for sparring. Truly, what else is there to do? Sew? Clean? Read? Maybe worthy activities in solitude, but with you… I’d rather sit in our—in my bed and talk. Or fuck, if you’re up for it.”
“No,” Roan decided. “You’re tired.”
The ghost of a smile flitted across Vesper’s face, before she stood, her chair scraping back on the tile floor. She collected the plates and disappeared off to the kitchen, then returned far too quickly.
“Either you wash your dishes impossibly fast, or you just dumped them into the basin.”
Vesper flapped her hand, making a face. “Eh, they’re soaking. Shall we?” She offered her arm. Roan laid his hand on her bicep and led her through darkened hallways, lined with stained glass, and up to her own boudoir.
Red velvet was her favorite cake and her favorite fabric, too. The pillows, the upholstery, the drapes—they were all red velvet, maybe with some black tassels as accent. Her red dress disappeared into the curtains in the dim lighting—only a few candles lit the room.
Roan unbuckled his sword belt, letting it fall to the ground. He took up his spot in the chestnut wood chair, reclining with his legs wide apart. He put his elbow on the armrest, resting his chin in his hand. Vesper was starting to take her earrings and jewelry off now, signaling an imminent state of undress, and he wanted to watch the show. As he gazed, she reached out and pinched one candle out, dimming the room a tiny bit more.
Turned away from him, she undid her finishing belt, placing it on top of her dresser. Then she began to undo the buttons of her overdress, slipping it off over her head. She hung it up, humming, and adjusted her hair. The common—attractive—displays that a femme exhibited once she thought her butch wasn’t watching. Then she reached behind her, untying her corset and exhaling with relief once it loosened, unhooking the busk with deft fingers. She reached without looking to open a drawer, missing the knob once but grabbing it the second time. As the wood slid on its rails, it offered Roan a glimpse of Vesper’s other corsets. One too gorgeous to conceal beneath a dress in fanciful red brocade, a black satin one with a frankly violent hip spring. Gingerly, she laid the pale linen one she’d just removed down next to it.
Roan started to undress himself once her corset was off, though he kept an eye on her. In the time it took Vesper to remove her hoop skirt and chemise, he’d already slipped out of his clothes and into his nightshirt—he did have his own drawer in her bedroom, he’d taken it without asking. Vesper turned around soon after, in her own lacy black nightgown, brushing out her hair. “I bet you're happy with your lifestyle at times like these.” She scoffed. “It is so difficult to be an overdressed, extravagant femme.”
“Sure, it’s difficult. It’s beautiful, though.” He stepped closer to her, gave her a kiss on the cheek. Vesper preened as she pulled her hair into a single long braid over one shoulder. She offered Roan her tin of toothpaste, which he accepted.
After rubbing a mysterious cream into her face, Vesper pulled back her red velvet bedspread, then eased herself onto the mattress. Turning to look over her shoulder, she asked—“Tie me up?”
“Of course.” Roan took the red ropes from where they hung above her nightstand. The bed creaked when he leaned into it as well. He handled her body with grace, pulling her arms, bent, behind her back and loosely binding her forearms together. Vesper giggled, and it turned into a snort halfway through. The position of her arms forced her to roll over, pressing her cheek against the pillow.
“You’re so gentle,” she said, almost wondering. “No one else has ever treated me like this before…” She trailed off. Roan pressed his lips together. Vesper was staring off into the distance, so he tapped her shoulder.
“This is the quick-release end.” He placed one end of the rope in her hand. “Pull it and the entire tie comes undone.”
“I know, you’ve tied me up like this hundreds of times…”
“It bears repeating.” On that note, he leaned over to the nightstand and blew out the candles on it, plunging them into darkness, except for the moonlight shining through the stained-glass window.
“Goodnight,” Vesper said into her pillow. Roan waited until her breathing slowed to stroke her hair back and make sure the rope around her arms was loose enough, then allowed himself to close his eyes.
