Drunken confessions (i) [R18]

Warning: The content of the following chapter has visual descriptions that might not suit certain readers, I request readers below 18 years of age to skip it.

Location: Shelb Army Camp, Northern Borders

The icy night wrapped itself around the Shelb Army Camp, its bitter chill creeping through every seam and fold of the tents. Vivian Whitestone moved swiftly, her emerald eyes sharp against the soft glow of the lanterns dotting the camp. Her cloak was pulled tightly against her frame, but even its heavy folds couldn't entirely stave off the northern cold. Whispers of Ethan von Shelb's strange behavior earlier in the day had reached her, and though she dismissed most as idle gossip, a seed of concern lingered.

As she reached Ethan's tent, a faint, flickering light spilled out, casting erratic shadows on the frosty ground. The eerie stillness inside only deepened her unease. Without hesitation, she pushed the flap aside and stepped in, her boots crunching softly against the frozen earth.

The sight that met her brought a sharp sigh of exasperation, but beneath it, concern gnawed at her. Ethan, his usually composed demeanor shattered, slumped in a chair by the extinguished hearth. His golden hair was disheveled, his half-unbuttoned shirt clinging damply to his broad shoulders. A bottle of whiskey sat precariously on the table drained, and the biting chill inside the tent was sharper than the winds outside. Muttering under her breath, Vivian crouched by the hearth, quickly relighting the fire to push back the freezing air and make the space warmer.

"Ethan," Vivian snapped, striding toward him, her frustration breaking through the silence. "What in the world are you doing? Do you want to freeze to death?"

His sharp blue eyes flickered open, unfocused and glassy. A slow, crooked grin spread across his lips. "Vivian," he slurred, his voice thick with intoxication. "To what do I owe this… fiery intervention?"

She ignored his teasing. "Get up," she commanded, grabbing his arm. Her fingers brushed the solid warmth of his skin. "You can't stay like this. You'll catch your death."

Ethan chuckled softly, his voice a low drawl. "Ah, Dame Whitestone, always so commanding. What would I do without you?"

With effort, she hauled him upright, her strength straining against his heavier frame. The movement brought them closer, the heat of his body stark against the icy air. Avoiding his gaze, she steered him toward the cot and pushed him down firmly. She pulled a blanket over his shoulders, her brow furrowing as her eyes fell on his damp shirt.

Muttering under her breath, she knelt to undo his boots, ignoring his drunken protests, then worked to remove the offending garment. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, driven by both irritation and care. Wrapping him tightly in the blanket, she rose to fetch a clean shirt.

"Vivian," he murmured, his voice softer now, "you're always so serious. Don't you ever just… let go?"

As she turned to leave, his hand shot out and caught her arm. His grip, even dulled by drink, was surprisingly firm. "I'll let go when you're no longer risking hypothermia," she snapped, though her voice carried a tremor she couldn't entirely hide.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her chilled skin. "Your hair," he murmured dreamily, his fingers brushing a loose strand. "Always thought it'd feel like fire."

Her cheeks flamed, though she blamed it on the cold. "You're drunk," she muttered, her focus fixed on gathering his discarded clothes. But his hand moved again, tracing the edge of her cloak with a touch that was both hesitant and bold.

"Vivian," he said, his tone tinged with a quiet wonder, "why do you always hide behind all this armor?"

She froze, her breath catching. "Because I'm a soldier," she replied, her tone clipped, though her hands trembled slightly. "Unlike you, I take my duties seriously."

A lazy smile curved his lips. "But what if… I want to see the woman underneath?"

Before she could retort, Ethan pulled her toward the cot with unexpected strength, leaving her momentarily dazed. Though clumsy from drink, his determination caught Vivian off guard. His hands moved deliberately, unclasping her cloak and letting it fall to the ground, revealing the crisp lines of her uniform beneath.

"Ethan, stop this," she snapped, her voice sharp but edged with uncertainty. She clutched his discarded shirt and shoes, holding them like a barrier. But Ethan leaned closer, his fingers deftly undoing her buttons with surprising precision. Each unfastened button seemed to strip away more than her clothing, breaching the defenses she'd built around herself.

Vivian placed her hands over his, trying to stop him. "Enough, Ethan!" she hissed, her tone fierce yet pleading. But his drunken strength overpowered her resistance. With one swift motion, he slipped the shirt from her arms, leaving her in a tight undershirt that clung to her skin.

The cold air bit at her exposed shoulders, and she instinctively reached for her discarded shirt. Ethan moved faster, tossing it to the corner with a flick of his wrist. "You don't need this," he murmured, his tone low, slurred, yet reverent.

"Ethan!" she barked, her voice wavering between fury and confusion. She tried to cover herself, but his hands caught hers, holding them still. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and his intense gaze froze her in place.

"You're beautiful, Vivian," he said with drunken sincerity, his fingers tracing the curve of her collarbone. "Strong. Fierce. Maddeningly perfect."

She flinched, her heart racing. "This is madness," she spat, trying to twist free. But his grip held steady, his faint smile sending shivers down her spine.

"You've always been this way," he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. "Untouchable. But not tonight." His voice softened to a husky whisper. "Let me see you. Just once."

Vivian's mind reeled, torn between the instinct to shove him away and the strange warmth his touch ignited. Every nerve was on edge as he leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek.

Despite her protests, Ethan's movements were deliberate, almost worshipful, like unwrapping a long-desired gift.

"Ethan," she hissed, her voice a mix of warning and uncertainty. Her struggles only seemed to deepen his determination, his hands lingering as though memorizing every line of her. For a moment, she glimpsed the man beneath the haze—a man driven by long-buried desires.

Her resolve wavered, her heart pounding as his hands moved lower, his touch both bold and hesitant. The cold air of the tent seemed to vanish, replaced by the heat radiating from his body. She hated how her own breath hitched, the way her body betrayed her reactions.

Her hands, gripped in his, underscored a strength difference she had never fully noticed during their sparring matches. 

"Ethan," she whispered, her voice trembling. But he silenced her with a soft murmur, his lips brushing against her jawline. "Just tonight," he said, his voice thick with intoxicated honesty. "Stay with me."

Her protests faltered, her body caught between resistance and surrender. Ethan's free hand slid down her arm, his grip firm yet tender as his fingers interlaced with hers, pinning her other hand down.

"You're my everything, Vivian," he murmured, his lips brushing the curve of her neck. "Do you even realize it?" His voice carried the weight of long-suppressed desires, finally unleashed by the haze of alcohol.

Vivian's breath shuddered, her emerald eyes flickering closed as her body waged war against her will. His words, heavy with drunken reverence, were not just murmurs—they were confessions. His touch, deliberate and teasing, sent waves of heat through her, awakening emotions she had buried beneath duty and restraint.

"Ethan," she pleaded softly, her voice trembling. "Please, don't do anything we'll regret tomorrow."

His hands stilled for a moment, his gaze searching hers before resuming their path, his grip unyielding yet gentle.

"Stay with me," he begged softly. "Let me see you, Vivian. Let me show you how much I mean it."

Vivian blushed as she struggled against him, "Commander, what happen to your mask of discipline?"

His eyes fell to her undershirt, strained against its burden.

"So much you keep hidden," he murmured, his voice low. Shifting his grip, he held both her hands with one of his, leaving his free hand to trace the faint outline of her chest.

His thumb brushed over a peak, rubbing gently yet insistently, teasing out a response her body couldn't deny. Through the fabric, her hardened nipples betrayed her reaction, and Ethan's lips curled into a slanted smile.

"You're more honest with me than you are with yourself," he murmured, his tone playful yet laced with frustration. Vivian flinched, her protests faltering as a jolt of sensation surged through her.

Ethan had pinched her bud, his gaze locked on her, studying her reactions with drunken curiosity. He tilted his head, observing her with the air of someone uncovering a mystery.

"Ethan, stop," she hissed, her voice trembling between reason and anger. "A noble's pride is their life. Don't make this a game for your drunken whims." But her plea only deepened the shadow in his expression.

"Pride?" he growled, his tone sharp and accusing. "Who are you saving these for, Vivian? Another man? After all these years, were you planning to reveal yourself to someone else? You should have been mine," he spat, his voice cracking with frustration. "Years ago."

His jealousy bubbled over, twisting his words with bitterness and desire.

Her continued protests only stoked his drunken determination. "These clasps are holding back too much," he muttered, his fingers fumbling with the fastenings, his frustration evident.

Tugging at the first clasp with his free hand, he released it with a triumphant grin. "I just need to see," he insisted, his voice slurred yet resolute.

Ethan's hand moved with relentless focus, wrestling with the remaining clasps as soft, frustrated pants escaped him.

Finally, with one decisive tug, the undershirt slipped free. He paused, his gaze fixed on her, filled with awe and longing as though he had uncovered a treasure meant solely for him. For a moment, he simply stared, the drunken haze in his eyes mingling with something deeper—reverence for what he now saw as his.

Ethan's blue eyes, hazy with intoxication yet sharp with awe, lingered on her exposed skin. Her full mounds, freed from their tight bindings, now stood revealed, crowned by proud, unyielding buds that seemed to match her defiance. His lips curved into a slow, drunken smile, a mix of disbelief and possessive reverence.

"I didn't know my dear little Vivi was hiding such secrets," he slurred, teasing yet heavy with jealousy. "Not one, but two—and far bigger than I ever imagined." His gaze held unrestrained desire, mingled with smug satisfaction.

Vivian froze, her hands instinctively flying up to shield her chest, but her resistance only fueled his determination. With clumsy agility, he grabbed the discarded undershirt, looping it around her wrists to tie them behind her back.

"I've always been better at knots," he said smugly. "And let's face it, your little hands could never hide these." His laughter, low and lewd, filled the charged air.

Her jaw tightened as she tugged against the binds, her movements unintentionally setting her chest into motion. Ethan's gaze darkened, his expression a blend of drunken awe and satisfaction as he studied her like a masterpiece.

"Save this for someone else?" he growled, his voice heavy with jealousy. "No, Vivian. No one else deserves what's mine." Leaning closer, his breath warm against her skin, his possessiveness sent a shiver through her.

Ethan's hands gripped her shoulders as he guided her to kneel in front of him on the ground. His firm, deliberate movements left her no choice, despite her blazing defiance.

"Why fight it?" he murmured, his voice coaxing and mocking. "You've always been mine."

Her pride bristled, but her defiant glare only seemed to embolden him. His blue eyes roamed over her, lingering with awe.

"So perfect. So fierce," he muttered. "How could I let anyone else have this?"

Leaning back onto the cot, he sank into its frame, his fingers twitching as if caught between reaching for her and savoring the view.

"You'll see, Vivian," he whispered, his voice thick with conviction. "You're mine. No one else."

As Ethan gazed at her from his seat on the cot, while she knelt before him on the cold ground, her shivering torso exposed, his drunken thoughts swirled in triumph.

She had haunted his dreams since puberty, a woman who grew alongside him yet remained untouchable.

Men called her an anomaly—too bold, too strong—and his father had steered him toward gentle women like Flora. But Vivian, in every way, defied expectations. Her strength, her defiance, and her opposition to his family's ideals only magnified her allure.

Sober, he would never admit it. Drunk, he reveled in the prize before him.

"Why do they associate me with Flora?" he sneered, his disdain sharp. "What do they see in her?"

His chuckle, low and bitter, cut the air like a knife. "She's just a child playing at courtly manners, while the goddess I've always wanted kneels before me."

His thoughts turned darkly to Fredrick, smug in his belief that Ethan envied his marriage to Flora. How wrong he was.

"Flora's a doll for the court to admire," he muttered. "But you, Vivian—you're a goddess. Even now, even like this."

The careless mention of Flora struck Vivian like a blade. Bound and kneeling, stripped of her dignity, Ethan's words twisted the knife further. She had always admired him, respected him, and now, he compared her—semi-naked and humiliated—to Flora at her most exalted.

Her emerald eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she whispered, "Is that all I am to you? Just lumps of flesh?"

Ethan's expression softened, though his drunken confidence didn't falter. His thumb pressed lightly under her eyes, brushing against the faint shadows there.

"You're holding them back," he murmured, his voice low and insistent. "Shed them, but only for me."

He probed gently, his touch coaxing as if forcing her unshed tears to fall. "Your tears hurt me, Vivian, but the thought of you crying for someone else—" his voice grew softer, "that would destroy me."

His thumb lingered, tracing her cheek as his gaze wandered downward. "You're part of me, Vivian. Even these," his eyes flicked to her chest.

Vivian's turmoil deepened. Ethan had been the only man who respected her strength and dedication to her craft.

Her naturally full figure, combined with her rigorous training, had always set her apart, drawing admiration and lewd remarks alike. But no one hated her body more than she did. Even as a teenager, when other girls celebrated their growing curves, she had bound herself tightly, unable to reconcile with her proportions.

Hearing Ethan, of all people, fixate on what she despised most tore her apart. Bound and exposed, his words sliced deeper than she thought possible.