#willowlake

“I’m going,” Emilia retorts coyly, azure eyes fluttering.

The knight crooks an eyebrow. “Since when did you become a librarian?”

It’s low-hanging fruit, but Emilia’s (childish) eye-roll makes the joke worthwhile. She needs someone to tease her. At only sixteen, the girl is the youngest of Lady Adeline’s ladies in waiting. Emilia’s practically grown up on the estate — a true child of Willowlake. Since her youth, when she was first taken under the Lady’s wing, Corvinus has been there. He still remembers her lank hair and bone-thin frame, the way the rags from the orphanage barely clung to her. Now, Emilia is a different person. She’s blossomed into a bright young thing, plump and rosy, blonde curls flying wild around her face. She spends hours in the garden… or further out, in the rolling farmland that surrounds the estate, picking wildflowers and watching sunsets. Emilia wants to be grown-up, on the same level as the other ladies… but she’s still too girlish. Too eager. Still the girl who clung to Corvinus wherever he went, sheltering in his protective shadow for years.

And he will protect Emilia — always. Half his job nowadays is keeping her out of trouble.

Which means he has to go to the ball.

“You’re not allowed to drink,” he says bluntly, cutting across a cobblestone path. Willowlake is renowned for its sprawling gardens. The estate has stood for centuries, so the flora has had many years to grow wild. Built in the style of old French chateaus, Willowlake is elegant, polished… vast. The stately old foyer, winding staircases, gilded dining halls and airy, velvet-lush sitting rooms… it’s easy to lose yourself there. One could wander from room-to-room for ages, always finding something new. (Part of Corvinus’s job at these balls is rounding up wayward guests. Once, they lost the Countess of Rudden for two weeks in the portrait hall.) 

The estate’s crowning glory, of course, is its garden. Leading away from the chateau, it begins in careful order — graveled paths and neatly kept hedgerows — but the further one strays, the wilder it becomes. Roses climb unchecked across broken statuary… laurels twist into living corridors, fountains burble beneath canopies of vine and moss. Cobblestone paths meander past luscious flower beds and statues of the gods, leading down into the heart of the estate: a large inland lake, surrounded by weeping willows. The surface is a glossy mirror of the sky above, its interior fathomless as a bone-glass. They say if you sink below the surface, you’ll emerge in another world.

Heaven, perhaps? Corvinus wouldn’t know. He’s not a swimmer. It’s said, though, that Willowlake is the closest one can get to Heaven-on-earth. Those who visit never want to leave.

“I mean it,” Corvinus declares, trudging through a bed of begonias. If he follows the path, they might wander the garden for hours — and he’s got shit to do. “No drinking. You stay away from the piano, the balconies, the swimming pools…”

Emilie pouts. “No fun.”

“The kitchens, the hall of mirrors, do not go near the petting zoo—“

 “I’m not allowed to do anything?”

“Eat. Drink. Be merry,” Corvinus says flatly. An ounce too merry, though, and he’s picking her up by the scruff of the neck like a kitten.

Emilia pouts. “I drank at Jackie’s birthday.”

“You had a cup of wine,” Corvinus retorts, “and I had to carry you to your room. Do you recall any of this?”

She has to think… for a loooong moment.

“I thought so,” Corvinus huffs.

The trouble is, he has no choice. The party is bound to be grand, and grand parties are always wild. It’s his duty to stay sober and keep an eye on the guests.

On the morning of the party, the Lady summons him at an unholy hour. Corvinus, an early riser, isn’t daunted. Around six in the morning, makes his way to her private parlor. Lady Adeline is waiting for him; from the looks of things, she hasn’t slept all night.

The parlor itself is lavish, in a comfortable, lived-in way. Blue damask curtains frame the room; soft shades of blue and gold accentuate the carpet, the walls, even the pillows on the sofa. There’s a table in the center of the room, set for a late-night tea… The three-tiered tray, made of solid gold, ought to be layered with pastries. Instead, it’s conspicuously empty.

Corvinus doesn’t have to go searching. At the other end of the couch, a heavy frame lolls like a beached whale. It’s Luke, one of the gardeners — Corvinus recognizes the boyish face and dirt-stained overalls, his usual work clothes. Except Luke’s suspenders no longer fit him; his trousers look desperately strained. He gives a low groan, resting a hand over his stomach. He squirms for relief — as much as he can, with a heavy meal weighing him down — but there’s none forthcoming. All he can do is nurse the swell, heaving soft, shallow breaths. Luke’s eyes are hazy. His cheeks are flushed.

Corvinus tactfully ignores the debauched gardener, because it’s none of his business. He drops to his knee in a deft bow. “My Lady.”

Draped across the couch, lounging with an arm outstretched like a sun-bathing cat… Lady Adeline smiles.

She smells like roses today. Each morning, she chooses a new scent from her expansive collection of perfumes. Corvinus is suspicions about her scents; the lavender seems to make people sleepy, the hibiscus gets them hot under the collar. He always keeps a mindful distance. Getting too close to Lady Adeline… is dangerous. Her presence goes straight to your head. The rest of the world fades, old cares seem insignificant… suddenly, your entire world consists of violet eyes, gentle hands, the gleam of sunlight against silvery blonde hair. The Lady is all-consuming. Yet, whenever he tries to describe her — whenever Corvinus looks at her directly — she grows indistinct. Her edges blur; her details turn hazy; inevitably, the close scrutinizer ends up with a headache. It’s not worth the effort.

Whatever she is, she’s not human. Corvinus knows that for a fact. Perhaps she was, once… or else she’s very good at pretending. 

“Corvinus!” Her voice is like silk, soft and light even as it wraps around you. The Lady extends an arm. Inwardly, Corvinus winces.

There’s no avoiding it, though, so he steps closer, allowing himself to be drawn in. Lady Adeline grasps his hand. The show of affection would be unusual, from a noblewoman to the captain of her guard, but Lady Adeline is an unusual woman.

“You are all prepared tonight, I trust?”

“Yes, my Lady,” Corvinus replies. Already, he’s feeling a bit hazy; his feet must be touching the ground, but he can’t feel them. “We’ve taken the precaution of locking up the galleries and staff areas. Two guards are stationed at each door to the dining room; a guard in every hall on the lower floors, and one posted in front of the staircase.”

They don’t want a repeat of the Duke of Spiers incident. The fool rolled down the stairs like a rotund bowling ball; he was so drunk, he didn’t even feel it ‘til the next morning.

“Excellent.” Lady Adeline’s shoulders relax. After a moment, she looks up at him again, a coy smile on her lips. “And you? You do not need to patrol the whole night, my dear. If you wish to indulge…”

It sounds so tempting, coming from her. As the lady’s words wrap around him, Corvinus can just imagine it. Sipping from a goblet of wine… tasting the richness on his lips as warmth suffuses through him. It would be so easy for one cup to turn into two… then three, then four, and suddenly Corvinus can’t stay on his feet. He could sink into the chair beside Lady Adeline… she would stroke his hair… run her fingers along the ridges of his armor… coax the heavy garments off. “You can’t enjoy your evening with these silly things constraining you…”

And the food. Oh, the spread would be marvelous. Dinners at Willowlake are borderline obscene, both in their flavor and quantity. No expense is spared — and plates never run empty. She could guide a drumstick to his lips, and Corvinus would be helpless to refuse…

No. He shakes himself out of the fantasy, summoning every ounce of self-control. He won’t be drawn into a night of debauchery… never again. Tonight, he has a duty to perform. 

“Very kind, my Lady.” He disengages his hand from hers, like snipping a cord. At once, his head feels slightly clearer. “But I am a guard. Not a guest.”

“You are my friend,” Lady Adeline insists… and there’s no doubting the sincerity in her eyes. “I want you to have a good time.”

“I shall.” Corvinus swallows. Something painful twists in his gut, sharper than a cramp. It means something to be wanted. He never had such a thing in his life, before Willowlake.

For all her strangeness, Lady Adeline is a friend. He doesn’t understand her, doesn’t always trust her intentions, and must always keep his guards up around her… but she’s kind. Her sympathy is genuine, her devotion unwavering. The Lady never cringes from the sick, or turns away a person in need. She wants to help. Corvinus suspects she even enjoys it.

At the other end of the couch, Luke’s stomach gives a loud gurgle. He whines softly, cradling it. Corvinus can’t help glancing towards the gardener, brows furrowed.

“You’re alright, dear,” Lady Adeline soothes. As she leans over her latest pet, there’s a gleam in her eyes — it's clear her own hunger is still being satisfied. She cards a hand through Luke’s curls, and the young man moans.

“Shouldn’t have… had that last cake…”

“But you enjoyed it,” Lady Adeline preens. Her hand stills over his stomach, almost mocking. “Didn’t you?”

His exhale shudders. He gazes up at her as if caught in a dream. “M-my Lady…”

“Hmm?”

His mouth hangs helplessly open for a moment… before a wet belch rolls up. Chuckling, the Lady leans back, gaze flickering towards Corvinus — what can you do? her shrug seems to say. This is just another morning for her. Tomorrow, she might have tea with one of the guards, or a footman… gods, she caught a traveling salesman once.

Corvinus takes a step back, ducking his head respectfully. “Tonight, my Lady. I have it in-hand.”

“Of course you do,” Lady Adeline replies, with a gentle smile. Beside her, Luke whines softly, hands fumbling for the button of his trousers. Without even looking down, Lady Adeline bats his hand away. No relief, unless she allows it.

Corvinus slips out of the parlor, his face set in a mask of stone. Not his business, he reminds himself. Even once the haze of rose perfume has faded, the soft clouds drifting out of his mind… something deep in his gut still aches.

It feels like hunger. Or envy.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

By late evening, the ballroom is alight with all the revel and rowdiness of a Willowlake fête. The evening pulses like a supernova captured under glass. Chandeliers shimmer like hungry stars, casting a golden veil over the silk-clad throng. Figures twirl with reckless abandon — one song blends into another until they are not sure how long they’ve been dancing, or how long they’ve been here. The air is alive with laughter, clinking glasses, the rustle of brocade. Every room spills over with guests… yet the wine casks never run empty. And the food… oh gods, the food.

Platters groan under roasted meats dripping in a honeyed glaze… delicate pastries, drizzled with cream and sugar… fat baked potatoes with butter spilling past their lips. Even the vegetables are roasted to perfection. The food is succulent — addictive, even. Rich flavors linger on one’s lips long after their plate has been emptied… and, before they’re consciously aware of wanting it, they have another serving.

The food, the drinks, the dancing! A violinist plays a frenzied waltz—or is that just the room spinning? People slump into plush armchairs, melt against pillars, fall over each other…

It’s all deliciously debauched.

Corvinus counts the minutes until it’s over.

One gentleman staggers into a pillar; his cravat is loose, his cheeks flushed. He clutches his middle with a soft moanthe , the rich food shifting inside him lead.

“At ease, sir,” Corvinus says, appearing at his elbow like a shadow. 

The man presses the back of his hand to his mouth, muffling a hiccup. “E- e’scuse me,” he slurs. “Had a bit more th’n… I intended.”

“It’s no trouble,” reassures Corvinus. One hand light upon his elbow, he’s able to expertly steer the man without him feeling corralled. He’s done this a dozen times tonight already — it’s a well-hones talent.

“That third helping…” The man hiccups again, stumbling over his own feet. “Couldn’t turn away.” His fingers knead helplessly at the curve beneath his waistcoat. Corvinus helps him down onto a settee, and the man slumps down, both hands cradling his gut.

Such undignified behavior would have been unheard of earlier in the night. These soirées, though… people are looser with their manners and their morals.

He passes the drawing room, full of secluded corners and curtain-draped awnings; it is, unofficially, the place guests go for a moment alone. (If they had enough sense, they’d stumble back to their bedrooms — of course, most of the guests are staying the night — but fore frequently, people end up sleeping where they collapse. In the morning, Willowlake’s staff will have to coax disoriented revelers out of tangled heaps on the sofas and floors. Can’t have anyone sleeping through the breakfast buffet, after all…)

A lady giggles behind her fan, fluttering wine-glossed eyes at the passing guard. Corvinus merely nods. He passes portrait artists and sorcerers, familiar townspeople and visitors from other worlds. One lady lays sprawled back against a windowsill, her face flushed with drink and bliss; there’s a gentleman kneeling between her thighs. Corvinus rolls his eyes, stalking over to the pair. “The windowpanes are not that strong,” he warns… and thankfully, they take the hint.

“Mmph! Corvinus—“ Jacqueline, one of Lady Adeline’s most trusted ladies-in-waiting, emerges from a velvet-draped alcove. Her hair is a disheveled tangle; her mouth is sticky with powdered sugar, and vivid lipstick-kisses stain her collarbone. “Corvinus,” she beseeches, grasping his arm — and he just has time to think gods, not another threesome before she asks, “Where’s Emilia?”

That’s… a great question, actually.

Where is Emilia?

He left her by the chocolate fountain earlier in the night, and assumed she’d stay close — but, as his trained gaze sweeps the room, Corvinus comes up empty. No blonde fae-child in a gown of violet silk. Emilia’s absence suddenly rings louder than any shout.

He’s been so distracted wrangling the party guests… he should have noticed.

Corvinus’s stride turns purposeful as he circuits the ballroom. He’s too aware of everything now — the clinking of glasses, the raucous laughter, the trill and groan of the orchestra. It’s all sickeningly opulent. The entire estate is drunk on its own atmosphere, glutted with pleasure ‘til it’s fit to burst.

He imagines the walls splitting open, the marble floors buckling in on themselves… Willowlake caving in to Hell, in a torrent of shattered porcelain, golden silverware, chandelier shards, and debauched people. Would they deserve it? Must all people who enjoy themselves so shamelessly suffer as a consequence of their gluttony?

Or can they simply… enjoy it?

At last, his gaze settles on a familiar figure. Flush-faced and bright-eyed, her coronet of gold set crooked from a night of dancing… there’s Emilia. She’s perched upon the edge of a banquet table, swinging her feet like a child. A starry-eyed courtier sits at her elbow, feeding her plums from a gilded bowl. Emilia parts her lips for each one, preening like a spoiled cat. She clutches a half-drained goblet; given the splash of wine staining the front of her gown, she’s already passed her limit.

Corvinus threads through the dancers to reach her. He catches fragments of overheard chatter — the ripple of a scandalous joke, the press of bodies passing too near — but the guard wont allow himself to be distracted. By the time he reaches Emilia, his gaze is steely.

“My lady,” he says, “you should not be sitting on the table.”

She turns, and her flushed face lights up at the sight of him. “Cor!” Emilia flings her arms out to embrace him — and nearly topping off the table with the effort. Not missing a beat, Corvinus steadies her… even as the young girl giggles against his shoulders. 

“My favorite Cor,” she says again, stroking his raven hair. “I missed you! Where— where’ve you been? There’s so much—“ She gestures around the ballroom, as if that explains it all. Indeed, Corvinus can fill in the blank. “And you look so serious!” she chides, tapping him on the cheek. Have you enjoyed yourself for one moment?”

“I’m on duty,” he reminds her gently.

“Always on duty.” 

Emilia heaves a sigh, and leans in — close enough that he can smell her wine-drenched breath. She’s still clutching him, and it makes him feel so protective. She shouldn’t be here. All this debauchery gets under his skin; he feels exposed, unsettled, dizzy. The only sober man in a room full of excess. Seeing Emilia caught up in it, though…

”I’m carrying you out of here,” he says firmly, grip tightening around her waist. “You’ve had enough.”

“And you haven’t had enough.” Emilia pouts. Something flashes in her eyes, petulant… and dangerous. She’s too old for tantrums, but the girl has other methods of getting her way. How many afternoons has she spent with Lady Adeline, studying at her elbow as the mistress weaves her spells?

Corvinus catches on too late. The itch under his skin, the faint haze in his head. The whiff of perfume… not rose, but gardenia. Emilia’s favorite flower.

The girl smiles, her lips glossy with wine. A sweet haze presses in on Corvinus’s mind.

“I know what you need,” Emilia sing-songs.

“Don’t,” he growls, fingers digging into her waist. It must hurt, but she doesn’t flinch.

“Cor,” the girl beseeches, tracing a lazy spiral over his brow. It makes his head loll… his self-control wither. Ah, the girl’s been taught well. “Enjoy yourself tonight. For me?”

The guard grits his teeth. “I have a… responsibility…”

But these nights always end the same way. He’s been here so many times… telling himself how much he hates it, how he’s better than these nobles without a thread of self-control. He spends so much time focused on resisting the patty’s sway…

Yet by the end of the night, he’s just like everyone else. Stumbling around with a full stomach, his composure lost at the bottom of a wine bottle.

Emilia is no Lady Adeline — she doesn’t have the same power, the same sway. A stronger man might be able to resist.

Not Corvinus.

He feels a chalice being pressed to his mouth. On instinct, the guard’s lips part; he takes a gulp of sweet wine. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to deny how good it tastes.

Oh, Heaven help him. He’s already gone.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Looking back on it later, Corvinus doesn’t know how he ends up sprawled on a divan in Willowlake’s grand foyer. The night is a blur; he remembers the fruity tang of liquor, the rich taste of a German chocolate cake. A lady in blue was fawning over him; she made him eat every bite, raising the fork to his mouth even when his stomach groaned in protest. Corvinus should have turned away, refused the indulgent sweetness…

And yet.

Now, here he is. Gazing up at the ceiling as it blurs and whirls above him. A chandelier hangs overhead, crystals glittering in the hearth-light. Like… fireflies floating around him. The longer he lays there, immersed in warmth, the more Corvinus feels like he’s floating too.

There’s a hand in his hair. He’s not sure where it came from. His chest jolts with a hiccup, and he grunts… but fingers trail over his scalp, soothing him like a mother’s kiss.

“Shush,” a voice murmurs. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Except… isn’t it morning already? The din of the party has died down. Some guests managed to get home; others are passed out on sofas or slumped in corners, wherever they were able to stagger to. Trousers hang open, corsets are loosened… several buttons litter the floor, where they must have popped off an unlucky man’s waistcoat. How much would someone have to eat to literally burst out of their clothes?

“Wha‘ss…” Corvinus swallows, and tries to force the words out — but they’re thick as treacle. Even slower than his thoughts. “Wha’ss… morning soon? Thought it was…”

He hiccups again, a hand drifting to his stomach. His own pants are unbuttoned, he realizes; he’s laying here with his belly on display, swollen taut from all the wine and cake. A faint groan escapes him. He ought to roll over… to get up…

But that hand in his hair soothes him again. The guard melts, his eyes fluttering.

“You’ve had quite enough fun tonight,” that silky voice chides… and Corvinus would recognize it anywhere. The cloud of rose perfume, the gentle hand…

He blinks up at Lady Adeline, and sighs. “Every time.”

“Yes,” the Lady agrees mildly. She gives her faithful guardsman’s belly a light pat. “Every time. Don’t you just love these balls?”

Even in his overindulged state, Corvinus can still narrow his eyes. The Lady giggles, tossing silvery hair over her shoulder.

“I must say, it does you good to relax. To… enjoy yourself for once.”

Corvinus groans in reply, squeezing his eyes shut.

“None that I’ve ever seen.” She pauses at his bedside, frowning down at him once more. Corvinus doesn’t like gazing up at her, as though worshipping at the altar of a fickle deity. He’s incapable of anything else right now — even sitting up leaves the room swaying, and the last time he tried to stand, he crumpled like a cardboard solder, legs turning to jelly beneath him. This illness has sapped all the strength in his body and lit a fire in his veins. His head pounds; his body aches; there’s an awful, liquid-thick heaviness in his chest, and no amount of heaving can satisfy his furious stomach.

“You’ve taken ill so suddenly,” Adeline says. “None of my remedies are working. I cannot say what ails you, or where it came from...”

“Children in the village are sick,” Corvinus responds, even as his belly gives a heavy flip. Sometimes, Adeline needs a bit of patience — letting the Lady get fretful is never a good idea. The weather turns strange. They almost had a hurricane, the time she couldn't find her favorite earrings. “Your exposure to human illnesses is very limited, remember. You’ve never been through a flu season. Little ones are… walking germ magnets.” He shudders again, and squeezes his eyes shut against a wave of wooziness. “Just… picked something up, is all. At the festival.”

“I never should have permitted the festival,” Adeline mutters.

The Mayflower Faire was an opportunity for the local folk — the fifty-odd who live in the village, plus all of Willowlake’s residents — to come together to celebrate the changing seasons. Winter is mild in this pocket of the universe… but spring always brings lighter spirits and brighter surroundings. Flower beds are beginning to revive from their long sleep, brightening with new life; grass is turning verdant again, and the air is light with fresh optimism. Spring, in all its glory. Everyone enjoyed the festival. It was lively with bright decorations and games; the Willowlake groomsmen guided little children around on ponies, while Luke the fiddler struck up a merry tune. Wine flowed liberally; the feast table was laden with dishes, more than enough to go around. No cup ever ran dry, and no plate was ever empty. By the end of the fest — as per usual, in their world — people had indulged themselves to excess. They all stumbled home with heavy bellies, spinning heads, and the kiss of spring upon their lips.

A contagious kiss, apparently. Three days later, Corvinus is far too achy to rise from bed. He has spent half the morning bent over a chamber pot, his stomach revolting mercilessly. It sloshes with his every movement, groaning loudly whenever he dares touch it. His usually-firm abdomen is taut and tender. He’s barely brought anything up… but cramps ripple through his frame, and wet belches burst from his lips. He can’t tame the nausea — any more than he can control the fever raging through him.

Well, he’s not on his deathbed — not yet. And he’s definitely not helpless.

“I can do that,” he murmurs, taking the mug as Adeline tries to raise it. His hands tremble; a fresh chill courses through him, and he must fight to keep his grip steady. When he tries to take a sip, his entire stomach clenches. Corvinus exhales shakily through his nose. After a few deep breaths, a thoroughly-nauseous hLLK! escapes him.

Gods, someone kill me now.

In lieu of that mercy, he stares into his cup... and somehow, he ends up drifting. Transfixed by the sloshing depths, by how the liquid quavers. He can’t stomach tea, but it’s a comfort simply holding it. Knowing someone has made this for him. Taken the time, taken the care… mixed a dose of honey and a drought of lemon until the liquid turned to gold...

Of all the places Lady Adeline could be, she’s looking after him. And he really must be ailing, because he doesn’t even mind.

“I am very familiar with mortal illnesses,” the Lady protests, taking a seat beside him on the bed. (It doesn’t creak under her weight — she doesn’t even leave an imprint on the blankets.) “Alexander taught me. He's a professional physician." (From the 1800s, Corvinus thinks, so his medical knowledge is about as valid nowadays as measuring someone's forehead and telling their future from it.) "Typhoid. Tuberculosis. Strep throat. Creeping black-worms. Measles. The ailment which makes your face rot away, after your testicles have—“

“Okay,” he says shortly — because that’s the last image he needs in his head, he's queasy enough. Raising a shaky fist to his mouth, Corvinus lingers there for a moment… before belching, a low, wet rumble. “Ugh.”

“Poor Cor,” Adeline murmurs, voice satin-sweet. She curls towards him, drawing her long legs up on the bed. For a moment, she just lingers at his side — and he is vividly, painfully aware of her presence — before reaching over. Her fine-boned hand settles on his stomach.

“No, do—“ Corvinus cuts himself off with a forceful burp; it turns into a gag halfway. He’s left scrambling for a chamber pot… but Adeline is quicker, sliding it into his lap before he’s even sure he’s going to be sick.

When it hits, he’s left trembling. His stomach spasms with an incensed growl; Corvinus echoes it with a moan, shoulders heaving in convulsive spasms. Yet nothing comes up. The more he gags, the more he shudders, the more he chokes on his own nausea… his stomach seems to be completely empty. A few mouthfuls of thick saliva come up, along with something that looks like tobacco juice… but it does nothing to quell the storm raging inside him.

“Drink your tea,” Adeline insists during a lull. “You need something to bring up.”

Corvinus answers with a groan and a muttered curse.

“Well, it’s better than this.”

“Debatable,” he retorts — and follows it up with a squelching burp.

He has no idea how it happens… how it comes about, in the haze of fever and nausea, that he’s no longer clinging to the chamber pot for dear life. Instead, he’s slumped against a warm, soft body. His head is pillowed on her chest. He draws short, panting breaths through his open mouth; anything stronger will anger his stomach, and he can’t endure another fit of heaving. This is bad enough — the constant dull churn, like a rippling ocean within him, swelling his belly taut yet consenting to release nothing.

“Shhh,” Adeline soothes, pressing his head against her shoulder… and it feels so good, Corvinus can only give in. Her hands are so cool. This fever is burning him up from the inside-out; he will be left a charred husk in its wake. He doesn’t want that — doesn’t want to burn on the pyre. Dying in battle is noble, but burning afterwards… leave the men where they fell, let them rot, don’t haul them away and dispose of their bodies like rotting winter-wood… 

“Shush,” Adeline urges again, her light fingers grazing her lips. Corvinus cuts off with a gasp. He’s been rambling. Gods, he didn’t even realize.

“Because you’re delirious,” Adeline soothes, rocking him like a child. “The fever has gone to your head.”

No, he cannot be insensible. That’s too dangerous. “I don’t— don’t want—“ His breath shudders. He chokes on a whimper. “Make it end.”

A shadow crosses the Lady’s face… and he’s never seen such sincere care there, or so much grief. 

“How can I?” Her words graze feather-light over his senses; she sighs, grazing her fingers through his thick black hair. “I am not a God, remember? You tell me all the time.”

A soft huff of laughter escapes his raw throat. “Because ‘s true.”

Lady Adeline takes so much responsibility for this world, holds so many strings, and is constantly pulling them to her whims… but Adeline cannot change people, not really. She can conjure buildings with her mind, turn a rose garden into a vegetable patch with a wave of her hand… the world is hers to control, but they are not. She cannot change their minds, their bodies, or their natures. To give in to the Lady, they cannot be coerced; they must agree. Must want it. Giving themselves up is always a choice.

And he’s never been able to resist.

Corvinus groans, burying his face against her chest. “My stomach,” he rasps… and his swollen belly gives an answering rumble, like thunder on the horizon. The nausea, at least, she can do something about. Let the Lady try.

With a sigh, she lowers her hand to his middle once more… and Corvinus could practically cry as she begins to rub in slow, soothing circles. He’s never felt so tight, so heavy with pure sickness. His stomach is a cauldron, and the contents of his belly are broiling. Nothing can soothe it… except the Lady’s hands, so blissfully cool. Except her soft murmurs, reverberating through him like a faint current of energy. Nothing can truly ease the nausea, but Adeline’s touch… quells. The broil turns into a simmer. The incessant groaning goes silent. A sick hiccup escapes him, but nothing more — no gags, no bile.

“Oh, Goddess,” Corvinus moans. Another shiver runs through him. This time, he cannot blame the fever.

“I told you,” she teases. “Call me Adeline.”

The guard forces his eyes open… and despite the illness wracking him, despite the nausea being soothed by a steady hand, he can still manage a withering stare.

The Lady giggles. As her hand presses a little harder, Corvinus’s stomach answers with a gurgle — and he grunts involuntarily, teeth baring. For an instant, it hurts, but then… relief.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. Willowlake makes it easy to pretend. Easy to lose yourself in a place like this… to let your thoughts slip away, let your inhibitions dissolve completely. 

Not that he indulges in such nonsense.

“I’m surprised! Here I thought you didn’t know how to have fun.”

Corvinus arches his brows, expression otherwise set in stone. “Spare my feelings.”

A laugh bubbles from behind the tall row of shelves. He can just make out Aurora’s head through the small gaps, her wild curls bobbing; in the library’s warm light, and in her sunflower yellow dress, she dances like a candle flame. It doesn’t take much to make Aurora laugh. The librarian is a very cheerful person. Corvinus never knows what to do with cheerful people. Some try to take him under their wing, like he’s a problem that needs solving — and then he acts like even more of a flinty bastard, just to annoy them. 

Aurora doesn’t condescend, though. She’s just… sweet. Again, not Corvinus’s type, but it seems to be right up his best friend’s alley.

“He can be bribed. Or bullied.” Dorran lounges back against the nearest reading table with deceptive ease. Six months ago, he was an overly-formal stormcloud of a man, barely able to recognize a joke. His homeland of Barovia has recently descended into  a bloody civil war; their despot king was cut down, a sword in his back, while the heir to the kingdom fled into the night. So Corvinus heard. Dorran has the stiff bearing of nobility, the elegant features and swordsmanship honed by years of tutelage… but he also bears scars he won’t talk about, instinctively flinches at raised voices. 

Corvinus doesn’t ask questions. Not his business. When Dorran needs a hand up, he offers it; if he needs a sparring partner, he’s there; if he needs someone to cover his shift while he slips into the gardens with his girlfriend, Corvinus doesn’t complain.

Apparently, Dorran had no objection to becoming someone’s pet project. From the moment they met, he was entranced by bookish, bubbly Aurora… and she took him under her wing. Now, the poor bastard has been rehabilitated like a traumatized war house. By some miracle, Aurora even found him a sense of humor. 

Good for him. Annoying for Corvinus.

“Hmm.” Aurora peeks out from behind the bookshelf. “What’s your preferred currency? I’ve got alcohol.”

“And books,” Dorran chimes.

Aurora looks wounded. “I’d never bribe someone with a book! What do you take me for?”

“The estate librarian?”

“Sure,” she agrees, curls bouncing as she nods. “If he wants to check out a book, that’s different. But bribery is against my professional ethics!”

“Your sworn oath.” Dorran hums, stone-faced. “Your sacred librarian’s duty.”

“Exactly!”

“I don’t really read,” pipes up Corvinus.

Behind the bookshelf, Aurora goes very quiet. Dorran stares at him, with hollow black eyes, until Corvinus’s skin starts to itch.

As the librarian steps out from behind the shelves, Corvinus feels… reasonable apprehension. A battered alchemical burner glows on her desk — repurposed for tonight as a makeshift drink-warmer. Aurora’s auburn curls are pulled into a messy bun atop her head, loose strands framing her face like stray flames; the gold of her dress brings out the warm undertones of her skin. She’s carrying half a dozen bottles, which slosh and clink perilously as she moves.

“This can only end well,” Corvinus mutters, and Dorran snorts.

Oblivious to her audience’s growing terror, Aurora spreads the bottles of liquor out on the table. The door of the archives swings open, and a lanky, bespectacled man bounds out. Dark curls flop over his brow; he’s clad in an immaculate waistcoat-and-cravat set, carrying a tray of glasses.

“Okay! We’ve got the lime, salt, maraschino cherries…”

“Ice, Richard! We need ice!”

“Shoot, you’re right! Can’t have drinks without ice — oh, think we could call the kitchens? Special delivery? There’s this one kitchen maid, sweet as honey, she always gives me extra dessert — bet she’d bring some up to us if I asked nice.”

“We could make her a drink!”

“Right? Spread the wealth! Ooh, I was thinking, for the Cherry Bombs…”

The Willowlake library is run like a well-oiled machine. It’s easy to see why. Richard is the estate’s scribe and bookkeeper; he knows every inch of this place, and all its people. Their names, their histories, their secrets. The man would be impressive — honestly, he is — if only he weren’t wired like a greyhound on speed. Skinny, chaotic, and fucking brazen.

(The day he first met the scribe, Richard looked him up and down, said “Wow, you’re a big boy, arentcha?” and patted him on the chest. It left Corvinus feeling… emasculated. And slightly aroused. What the hell does he do with that?)

Richard and Aurora get along like a stable on fire. Just as Corvinus and Dorran have sworn themselves to the sword, they’re sworn to musty pages and parchment. Book People are a different breed, Corvinus supposes. 

As the two Book People continue to chatter, he shoots his friend a bemused look. Dorran just shrugs, a faintly-amused expression on his face. Clearly, he’s used to this.

“No, it’s salt, then shot—“

“You forgot the lime. Seriously, did you read any of the articles I sent you?”

“Yeah, skimmed them— hey! I absorbed all the important details!”

“Are we risking our lives here?” Corvinus murmurs.

“Mmm-hmm,” Dorran agrees, serene.

It takes fifteen minutes for them to get their shit together and actually mix the drinks. Corvinus tilts his head, unable to help his interest. It’s fascinating watching them come together, carefully-styled works of liquid art. The way Aurora measures the crimson syrup, balances it out with a healthy dose of vodka, plus a splash of something obscure and strong…

His chest burns, just looking at it.

“Okay!” Aurora chirps, holding up the little copper shaker she’d borrowed from the kitchen. “This one is called The Sky Maiden’s Kiss.”

“That name feels… suggestive.” Corvinus arches a brow, a smirk on his lips.

His fellow guardsman chuckles, eyes soft with affection. “She’s been researching beverages all week,” says Dorran. “Coming up with recipes.”

“And this is the best one!” Aurora declares. The drinks are somehow pink and blue, at the same time. They’re loaded with ice, swirling with glitter; a maraschino cherry adorns each glass.

“You boys are off-duty, right?” asks Richard, lifting one of the glasses. “No reason not to try it!”

Corvinus can think of a dozen reasons, starting with I don’t like cherries and ending with what the hell is in this drink? He keeps quiet.

“They’re really good, I promise!” Aurora says, pouring something bright blue into the shaker. “I’ve been studying, and the careful flavor composition relies on a balance between the sweet syrup and the — oops!”

A splash of liquor hits the table instead of the cup. Richard darts forward to blot it with a rag, grinning. “You’re doing great. Better than last time. Nothing’s on fire yet.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Aurora passes out the drinks, handing each one over with care. A glass for Richard, for Dorran, for Corvinus. “First round — here we go!”

Dorran sniffs the drink. “It smells… vivid.”

“It’s supposed to!” Aurora says brightly. “The recipe said it should ‘evoke a sense of boundless wonder.’”

“I wonder if it’s going to poison me,” Corvinus drawls. When Aurora turns to him, her expression soft-eyed and tentative — like a nervous rabbit — he can’t hold out any longer. Heaving a sigh, he raises the drink to his lips.

The flavor hits him like a punch, strong and sharp. He nearly chokes on the first sip, but powers through. The second sip goes down easier. Corvinus swallows hard, then glances up; Aurora is still watching, shyly hopeful.

“It’s excellent,” he declares, passing her back the empty glass. “A little less vodka next time.”

“You think? It was too strong?”

“You’re still working out the balance,” he replies, voice almost gentle. “You’ll get it right with practice.”

Aurora smiles, lowering her head as if he’s flattered her. She practically skips off — back to the drawing board, to mix another drink.

Winning a reprieve from being watched, Corvinus suppresses a hiccup. Bloody hell, that drink had a kick. He rubs absently at his chest, and a soft hICC! bubbles up without his consent. Stubbornly, the knight swallows it down.

Across the library, Corvinus catches Dorran’s eye. His friend shakes his head with a wry smile. It seems they’re going to be here a while.

Well, he thinks, suppressing another hiccup, at least the drinks are free.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

By the fourth round, Corvinus is beginning to lose his composure. This one is an aggressively sunshiney concoction in shades of orange and bright crimson. It tastes like fire going down… and sets his chest alight. As he rubs at his sternum, trying to force the burn down, a bubbly hCcK! escapes him. 

“That one was strong,” Dorran mutters, rubbing his eyes. “I am… beginning to feel it.”

Beginning? Fuck, what’s he made of? Corvinus’s world has already gone bleary. He has to lean against the nearest armchair, perching against the leather backrest. Standing upright leaves him unsteady… and he refuses to let on how much a few drinks are affecting him.

“This’ss… amazing,” Richard declares, staggering from the mixing table towards the nearest bookshelf. His glasses are off, sleeves rolled up to reveal elegant forearms; his dark curls are mussed. A rumbly hiccup-burp jolts him, and he giggles, bracing against the bookshelf for balance. “Think you’re gettin’ the hang of this, Ror.”

“I’m doing my best!” replies the aspiring-mixologist. She’s busy creating another potion. As Aurora has sampled her own drinks, her craftsmanship is growing sloppier. Her eyes are bright, though… a warm zircon, alight with golden flecks. Pretty. 

Corvinus stares for a moment too long, blinking hazily. Pretty girl, pretty drinks… hell, even the library is pretty, with its domed glass skylight and gold-enameled floors. Everything at Willowlake is beautiful — idyllic in a way that often feels unreal. Except for when he’s surrounded by people (by… friends?) and the world is firmly solid around him. Yes, Corvinus likes that.

The library has never appealed to him before, but now it feels cozy, a portrait in soft watercolors. Corvinus leans back against his chair, sighing deeply. The alcohol still burns his chest. He lowers his chin, grimacing.

hIIC-ulp!!

Oh, hell. That wasn’t pleasant. Glancing up, Corvinus catches a few amused glances directed his way. His shoulders tense; at once, he straightens up, rigid and defensive.

“Don’ worry,” Richard slurs, grinning like an idiot. “I’m feelin’ it too! Something about— what was it? Stellar Sunrise? Goes right to your head.” He nods at Corvinus, then frowns, tilting his head. “Sunrise… Surprise?”

The only surprising thing here is the faint rumbling of Corvinus’s stomach. There’s a bubbly pressure in his chest, like he could float away. He rubs it absently, still frowning.

Dorran, watching his friend from the corner of his eye, reaches his own conclusions. “Water,” he murmurs — thank you, very helpful — and reaches over to brush Aurora’s arm. “Do you have any, love?”

Aurora frowns. “I’d have to get it from the tap…“

Without warning, Corvinus hiccups again — a short, sharp hRrk! — followed by another one. When he pounds on his chest, he belches, deep and powerful. brroOOUURP!!

“Ohh,” he murmurs, dazed. “Pardon me.”

Except he’s not really embarrassed. The noises are utterly unseemly, but that belch felt incredible.

His friends are concerned (or perhaps just curious — it’s rare for stoic Corvinus to lose a shred of composure). Their gazes linger for a moment too long. Indignant, Corvinus straightens up, holding himself rigid, as if on guard duty. His gaze swivels around the room, daring anyone to make a sound.

Dorran keeps quiet. Aurora has some sense. But Richard just laughs, like a giddy kid; pressing his hand against his belly, gives a low belch of his own.

“See? Not a competition.” He swipes his mouth with the back of his hand and staggers to one of the desks. Slumping down in the seat looks like a relief. 

Corvinus hiccups again. He doesn’t mean to. The sound just… comes out. Heat floods his cheeks, even as his posture remains rigid.

“Really,” chirps Aurora, “no shame in it!” She turns back to mixing her drink — a bright green concoction this time, which looks and smells like springtime. She adds… a very healthy dose of Everclear.

Gently, Dorran clears his throat, leaning into his girlfriend’s side. “Perhaps this should be the last one.”

Aurora hesitates… then nods, with a soft sigh, setting the bottle down. She’s shown off her prowess on five rounds of drinks so far.  That’s more than enough.

When the last cocktail comes, Corvinus doesn’t immediately sip. Turning it over in his hands, he stares at it, gaze dreamy. He always gets like this after a few drinks; his mind becomes a haze, thoughts drifting away like clouds of smoke. It’s intensely frustrating. Corvinus wants to be sharp, alert, a soldier at all times. Yet when the alcohol begins to flow… he can’t help himself.

You’re lovely like this, Lady Adeline once preened, stroking her lithe fingers through his hair. Her touch made Corvinus dizzy. He couldn’t keep his eyes open; it was a pleasure to let them drift shut.

Soft? he asked her, a slur in his voice. Stupid? Because I’m… ‘m not like this. Not really. In real life, I… I was a soldier.

Yes, the Lady agreed. Long ago

I must… have to…

Stay strong? she preened. Take care of everyone… is that right, love? Protect us all?

Well, that summed it up. Corvinus is the protector — a born soldier, raised to fight, not to lie back and drift on a tide of comfort. The moment you surrender to impulse, you are lost. Corvinus knows that, deep in his bones. If he abandons his soldier’s oath, he’ll never reach the Golden Halls of Victory.

Lady Adeline, and all her temptations, can never understand that.

So, he doesn’t know how to enjoy this. Letting down his guards, melting into a haze of liquor and good company. It… goes against how he was raised. Against the life he once knew. Corvinus was born from rock and mortar, crafted into the perfect soldier.

Now, he’s sitting in a fancy library, drinking rainbow-colored cocktails while his friends (!) tease him.

What a strange turn of fate.

“Do you like it?” Aurora stands next to him, unable to keep the hesitation from her face. Her eyes are wide and soft, like a doe in a sunlit meadow. He can’t bear to let her down.

Corvinus takes a sip — swallows hard — and grimaces. The bubbly drink sparkles on his tongue, burning all the way down — a potent mixture of carbonation and liquor.

“It’s, ahem…” He clears his throat, almost speaking around the taste in his mouth. “Just like. Grass. Like springtime.”

“Like fucking Everclear,” Richard rasps, slumped over on the table. “Call an ambulance.”

Somehow, Dorran makes it through half the drink. Corvinus has no idea how, because even a few sips could knock out a horse, but if his friend  is drinking the whole cocktail, he can’t let himself be shown up. Resolutely, Corvinus raises the glass to his lips again — another sip of vivid green alcohol poisoning. 

“I guess I didn’t get the composition right,” Aurora frets. “Is it too sharp? I added some elderflower, and some mint juice— maybe I went overboard on the gin.”

Corvinus almost chokes.

“Or… or the absinthe. That was only supposed to be a splash.”

“Absinthe?” 

“Well, it’s called ‘Springtime Faerie Dance’, was I supposed to not add absinthe?”

“Ah,” Dorran says very calmly, looking down at his empty glass. “We’re going to die.”

After a beat, his broad chest jumps with a repressed hiccup. Dorran raises a fist to his mouth, eyes fluttering shut. For a moment, Corvinus is genuinely afraid his friend will be sick… but the sound that tears from Dorran’s throat instead, an intensely gurgling hiccup-belch, is so much worse.

Aurora gapes. Slumped at the table, Richard actually raises his head, gaping like a grenade’s been tossed in the middle of a picnic. Shrinking back, Corvinus tries for stealth. Perhaps he can make an escape while everyone else is distracted…

Except his head feels woozy, his steps are off-balance. He stumbles forward, a sharp hLLKk! wracking him.

“Was that—“ Aurora’s head swivels between the two guardsmen, her thin brows knitting together.

“Excuse me,” mutters Dorran. It’s so deeply ingrained in him to be polite, he doesn’t even register his friend’s outburst. “I didn’t mean to— hiCUuuURP! Oh…”

Another, deeper burp follows, rumbling through his whole chest. Cheeks burning, the knight presses a fist to his mouth. Corvinus can understand the feeling. It’s taking all his self-control not to let a stream of those awful burbles escape.

“Here, baby, sit down.” Without hesitation, Aurora rushes to her boyfriend’s side. She takes Dorran’s meaty bicep, tugging him over to the nearest armchair. Unsteady on his feet, Dorran has to brace himself against his girlfriend for balance — something he’d never let himself do if he were sober. The alcohol hasn’t fully kicked in, yet he needs to sit down. Badly.

Corvinus knows the feeling. His head is starting to swim. The room is soft and blurry; he can no longer make out the titles of books on the shelf, or the intricate beaded embroidery on Aurora’s gown. Focusing on details makes him dizzy, and his stomach is full of bubbles. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to breathe through it… but another hiccup jolts him. His broad chest rattles, shoulders jumping.

“You okay?”

He blinks, looking up. Richard is at the table, looking owlish without his glasses — disarmingly sincere.

“Fine,” Corvinus says briefly. “Drunk.”

“That bad?”

He doesn’t need sympathy. It’s nothing he can’t deal with, he’s had so much worse… but when he tries to say as much, a series of sharp hicc!-hYKK!-hRRCc!’s spill past his lips instead.

“Alright.” Aurora huffs, hands on her hips… as, around her, the library’s careful order falls apart. “That last round was way too strong.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

They all end up sprawled on the library floor. The chairs would have been easier, but honestly, once Corvinus sat down, he was not getting up again. The others tossed leather cushions on the ground and sank down to join him.

“I never knew you were so cuddly,” Aurora murmurs, tugging at a strand of Corvinus’s hair. “Like a big lapdog.”

Corvinus grunts, turning his head, so his face is smushed against the silken fabric of her skirt. Her lap makes a very comfortable pillow. He’s not going to be deterred by a little teasing.

“A cat, then,” Aurora corrects herself, stroking Corvinus’s head to soothe him. After a moment, she holds a bottle of water to his lips. Obligingly, Corvinus drinks.

He’s not sure he could stand now if he tried; his belly is far too heavy, sloshing with alcohol and water. It was the only thing that cured his hiccups (and at least he won’t be hungover tomorrow) but he didn’t need to drink half a gallon.

“You’re tryin’ to drown me,” he mutters, muffled in Aurora’s lap.

There’s a large, calloused hand massaging circles over his back. Corvinus doesn’t have to look up; he already knows Dorran is smirking at him.

“Have you ever been waterboarded?” Richard asks, fully out of the blue. He’s laying flat on his back, blinking hazily up at the skylight. Dorran keeps trying to turn him over, so he won’t choke on his own vomit, but the scribe is stubborn as a burrow-beetle. Every time they try, he flips back into the same position.

Waterboarded. Huh. Corvinus has to think about it.

“Never did torture,” he finally replies. “Too messy.”

“That’s your qualm?” Richard blinks like a groggy owl. “Not, like… ethics?”

“Ethics are for wea-hiIICC!”

With an authoritative huff, Aurora passes him the water bottle again. It’s cool, solid in Corvinus’s hand.

“We had… puppies once. A whole litter,” Dorran says in a far-away slur. “Mother made me drown them in the well.”

… there’s no good response to that one.

“Wow,” Richard finally says. “Huh. Umm, are you—“

“D’you want to…” ventures Corvinus.

“Definitely not,” replies Dorran, and buries his face in Aurora’s hair. 

After a long moment of silence, Richard props his head up, hiccups wetly, then asks, “How about shibari?”

Bloody hell. Corvinus may be drunk, but he can still aim a smack. The scribe flops back to the floor, giggling like mad. After a moment, Aurora begins to snicker too. Dorran is last to join in, but when he peeks through Aurora’s curtain of curls, a shy, tipsy smile is revealed.

“It was delicious,” Dorran replies, stonefaced. It was also the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him. What was he going to do, tell Aurora he couldn’t eat it?

The girl looks like she’s about to have a stroke.

“All this time. I don’t believe it. How did you never— why did you never?”

Excellent question. Dorran’s wondered that himself, actually. All the nights he’s gone to bed nursing a bloated, bubbly stomach… belching into his pillow and rubbing his belly, seeking any sort of relief. Sometimes he’s so heavy, so full from everything he’s eaten — even if it was only a piece of cheesecake, it weighs in his stomach like a boulder. Has Aurora ever noticed him breathing unsteadily? Noticed the soft burps into his fist, the murmured “pardon me”, the way his trousers strain to contain his bloated belly?

Of course she hasn’t. Aurora’s eyes are too wide. She’s always buried in a book — or looking ahead, planning out crafts and gifts and baking projects. Aurora sees the big picture, not the little details.

(Once, a bird landed in her mess of curls. She didn’t even notice. It stayed there for fifteen minutes.)

“It’s not—“ Dorran begins slowly — but his own stomach betrays him. Suddenly, it flips, like too-thick pancake patter churning in his gut. Dorran tenses. A thick, guttural belch rolls up his throat, and there’s no chance of stifling it. aoOUURrrp. The burp is warm, heavy with the taste of cheese.

“Oh Gods,” Aurora mutters, burying her face in her hands. “Dorran. Why did we eat all that lasagna if you can’t handle it?”

We is doing a lot of work in that sentence. It hadn’t been Dorran’s idea at all. Aurora was craving lasagna; she’s the one who wished the heavy, cheesy platter into existence. Their impromptu date turned into Dorran shoveling pieces of that gooey, creamy mess down his throat… just to make Aurora happy. He couldn’t refuse.

Now, his trousers are far too tight, and his tunic is straining. Dorran runs a hand down the elegant blue-and-silver satin, feeling the subtle hardness of armor underneath. His clothes are always heavy — there’s no relief for him in the daytime, no way of loosening them. Perhaps his trousers… no, that would be terribly rude.

A belchy hiccup rolls up. Dorran grunts, covering his mouth. “Pardon, love.”

In despair, Aurora throws up her hands. “You’re a mess!”

Dorran’s stomach gurgles loudly in agreement.

“How did I never see it before? You should have told me?”

“I should have,” Dorran agrees. Now that it’s all out in the open, he feels rather stupid for avoiding it. Did he imagine Aurora would judge him for his inability to handle cheese? Of course not. That isn’t in her nature.

When he shifts, his stomach gives a loud whine, and a cramp spasms through him. Dorran doesn’t flinch. He’s grown used to the cramping, at this point. He can tolerate pain. The gas and bloating are inconvenient, but he can work through them, too. The long trips to the toilet…

Well. Aurora doesn’t have to know every detail, does she?

Now, his darling’s eyes are soft, her face a mask of tenderness. When she steps forward, Dorran doesn’t flinch. She runs a hand through his hair, brushing it back… and his eyes flutter. Gods, he would live on his knees, just to enjoy Aurora’s touch every day.

“You,” she murmurs, “are an idiot. And your stomach is very angry at you.”

In agreement, Dorran’s belly gives another thick flip. He grunts, and manages to nod.

“But,” she says… and suddenly there’s a hand on Dorran’s tunic. Pushing the fabric aside, venturing under the armor… and she finds his stomach, hot and swollen. It’s rounded out as if he’s with child… and alive with discomfort, burbling, roiling. Another groan escapes as Aurora begins to rub his belly

“P-please,” he manages. “I’m— oouUrp— pardon, love— I don’t—“

“It’s okay,” Aurora murmurs, and her hushed voice feels too damned intimate. It goes straight to Dorran’s head. “It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to hide anymore.”

His eyes flutter. His belly moans. 

“Tell me how you really feel.”

She presses deep against his stomach, forcing the gas to shift. Another cramp ripples through him, fierce and agitated. Dorran gasps through his teeth.

“I feel,” he grits out. His stomach gives a lot burble. He stifles a hiccup, and breathes hard until the cramp passes.

Finally, Dorran meets his lover’s dark eyes.

“I feel so sick,” he admits, breathless.

And Aurora smiles, like this is just what she was waiting for.