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War smashed Sylvain’s last year at the Officer’s Academy.
When he returned to the Gautier estate to take on his duty, his father had a wife waiting for him. There are no guarantees in war, after all. Better to at least attempt to secure the Gautier line while they still could.
Sylvain argued. How could he make this decision without even waiting? How could his father even be thinking about bloodlines when the Kingdom was rushing towards a war that they had not instigated and were barely prepared for? Sylvain did not have time for nonsense about crests and bloodlines; he was worried about his king, his friends, his people .
But ultimately, it was all meaningless. His father refuted his every objection, promising that this business would add only another day to his timeline. The deal was done. Sylvain would be wed, he would attempt to secure an heir, and then go to secure his land against budding incursions from Sreng while his father supported their king in the frontline war effort.
After their meeting, Sylvain had punched the wall of his room repeatedly, bloodying his knuckles and achieving nothing. It would do him no good to throw a tantrum. He took a deep breath and found what he could about her.
Her name was Ingrid. He had met her once, he thought. He couldn’t quite remember. She was just a few years younger than him, a daughter of the lord of Galatea territory to the south. She had a minor crest. Just that might have been enough for Margrave Gautier. However, he had further reason to make the deal: there had already been a contract in place for several years.
She had once been intended for Miklan.
The revelation sickened Sylvain but did not surprise him. His father would do anything to ensure that the Gautier line continued with the supremacy of a crest. When Miklan left, the Margrave could have cancelled the betrothal but didn’t. A backup. Just in case. Thoughts of all of this swirled in his brain, and sleep eluded him.
Early the next morning, merely a day after he had returned from Garreg Mach, they were wed. Their hands were bound by a church official in the family chapel in front of their fathers only. Gautier territory was still in the grips of winter. The chapel’s candles remained unlit. It was echoey and so cold that their breath crystallized in the air of the chapel, white as the bride’s wedding cape.
She didn’t look at him once, keeping her eyes forward and her jaw set stoically. It prickled him. As though marrying him was some imposition. She could at least pretend to be happy.
It was what she was for, after all.
The wedding feast was a simple luncheon where their fathers talked business across them. A few vassals attended, bringing gifts that were essentially offerings to his father. Sylvain spent the time drinking and studying his new bride. If she minded, she did not say so. Ingrid didn't say a word, silently eating the food before her.
His father dismissed everyone in the early afternoon. Ingrid's father pulled her aside. Probably advice for the wedding night. Sylvain watched her bow her head, her expression tight, as he chattered on for a few moments before his own father approached.
"How lovely to have a Lady Gautier again," he said congenially, clapping his son on the back.
Sylvain smiled broadly, clasping his father's shoulder. "Too right, Father," he said, as though the two had not nearly come to blows over the arrangement the night before. "And such a lovely one, at that."
Lord Gautier chuckled heartily. "Now, with all I hear about your school days, I'm not sure I need to give you any advice for tonight." They both laughed. "If anything, this will be even better, since you're probably used to being careful." He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
"The very picture of prudence," Sylvain assured him, and Lord Gautier went on.
"It's best we try to sort out this inheritance as soon as possible. With any luck, there will be new Gautier blood before the next Guardian Moon."
Sylvain did not want to imagine such a thing, but such were the expectations placed upon them. He glanced towards Ingrid, who was staring hard at the ground while her father leaned in close to talk to her. Her ears were pink, her face frozen between shock and terror. A virgin, probably. It figured. Virgins were dull. He turned his attention back to his father, grinning at him. "Should we be so lucky!" he agreed.
Lord Gautier waved to Lord Galatea, who promptly delivered his daughter into Sylvain's arms. She was stiff, still looking at the ground.
"What a handsome pair," said Lord Galatea, beaming with pride at them.
"Peerless." Lord Gautier nodded sagely. "What attractive grandchildren we shall have, my friend!" He pounded Lord Galatea's shoulder as he said so. The three men laughed; Ingrid tensed but said nothing.
They were being dismissed.
Sylvain led her by the elbow to his quarters, which had been prepared for their arrival during the wedding. New linens, the bride's dowry chest, another chair at the little table in his rooms, a roaring fire, sparkling wine, delicate smelling flowers awaited them. At the doorway he stopped them and scooped her into his arms without a word.
Ingrid, who had not yet said anything, cried out in alarm, twisting in his hold first away and then back towards him. "Put me down!" she insisted.
"Come now," said Sylvain, rolling his eyes. "It's traditional."
"You're going to drop me!" She scrambled for a hold on his broad shoulders.
"If you don't stop squirming-" He let her drop in his arms slightly. She yelped, grabbing him around the neck. They stood still for a moment. "There, see? I won't drop you." He pushed open the door with his foot and carried her across his threshold.
He set her down, closing the door behind them. She stood frozen, her arms wrapped around herself, as she looked around without moving. Sylvain trailed his hands up her arms, slowly removing her cape to reveal the close-fitting dress she wore underneath.
She stepped away from him, clasping her hands in front of her chest. He took a moment to admire her form. A little more slender than his usual taste, but still quite nice. He could enjoy himself if he just focused on the body in front of him. He trailed the fingertips of one hand down her back, across her rear, reaching towards the high slit in her dress. She suddenly pulled away again, turning to face him. He appreciated how her gown featured a generous heart-shaped cut-out that gave him a lovely view of her breasts. He held his hands up in an appeasing manner. "Easy," he said, his tone soothing.
She backed away, probably not realizing that she was backing towards the bed. He followed, reaching out to run a hand up her thigh, exposing more of her. He needed these clothes out of his way. "We don't have to," she said unsteadily, as though she wasn't sure herself. She pulled back further, then yelped as she fell back on to the bed.
He laughed bitterly, undoing and shrugging out of his jacket and shirt as she pulled back. With how tight-fitting the dress was, she was having difficulty. "We absolutely have to," he said smoothly. "Besides-" She gave a bitten-off cry as he grabbed one of her ankles and pulled her back to him. "-I want to."
Her eyes were wide. She shook her head, but he ignored her, pushing her dress up over her hips, up her stomach, over her breasts, trailing his rough, strong hands in his wake. She shook, biting her lip at the warring sensations. Sylvain obviously knew what he was doing, and he was very handsome. But the outcome would be too terrible to bear. "Don't," she said, putting more strength into her voice. "We really don't."
She fought, but he easily removed her dress and tossed it away. She crossed her arms over her body, but he enjoyed it anyway. She was more muscular than he thought at first. Her corset and garter belt accentuated what plush curves she did have. He pulled her arms away from her body easily. Her face burned with a blush and she looked away. "Very nice," he crooned, trailing his hands on her. He undid her corset and let it fall to the bed. His hands cupped her breasts gently. She ineffectually tried to push him away.
He huffed in annoyance, catching one of her wrists. "This is going to happen. It has to happen. You'll serve your purpose, and I'll serve mine." He pulled her hand across his chest. She shivered as her hand ran over his muscles. "Let's just enjoy ourselves." He let go and she snatched her hand away, shaking her head to refocus.
"No," she said firmly.
He grabbed her hips with bruising force, and she yelped. "You think no is even an option for you?"
She squirmed, but stared him down anyway. "No is my only option. Let go!" She tried to get out of his grip but he was much stronger.
He grunted, lifting her hips off the bed. "Perhaps you think it best to play hard to get; did your father tell you it would make you seem more ladylike? Demure? There's no need with that nonsense between just the two of us. Be still, so we can get my little crest baby in you," he said. How bitter and bleak that statement. It tasted like ash in his mouth.
She glared up at him, and the fire in her eyes shot straight to his heart. The defiant set of her jaw did things to him that he didn't fully understand. “I don’t want anything of yours inside me!” she spat, wriggling in his grip. So, she would struggle against what she was, against her duty.
“You are just a broodmare ,” he said dangerously, lifting her hips higher. She gasped, scrambling to hold onto the sheets. “Settle down and I'll even make it pleasant for you.”
“A stud so ill-behaved would be gelded,” she spat back.
"Is that so?" His voice was low, ominous. Despite herself, Ingrid shuddered. "I'll have to make sure this stud session is productive, then. Since it may be my only shot." He flipped her over; she flailed, momentarily disoriented, before he pushed her upper body down into the bed, lifting her hips. He roughly yanked down the delicate lace undergarments she was wearing, though he left the garters and stockings.
"Stop!" she gasped into the bedding, but he paid her no mind.
He leaned down and dragged his tongue up her slit. She gasped and writhed as he reached down further, swirling his tongue over her clit before returning to her slit, stabbing in to taste her. "Fuck," he moaned, letting his voice vibrate against her. She shivered, trying to cover her own sounds. "You taste nice." He dove back in with gusto, adding a finger and then two, fucking in in time with his licks and sucks. Ingrid's legs shook, and her whimpers and moans slipped out around her hands, though she desperately tried to keep quiet.
"No, n-no," she whimpered, voice getting higher and thinner. Sylvain pushed hard, adding a third finger to her vagina, suckling gently but insistently at her clit until he felt her break for him. She wailed wordlessly, her walls clenching down on his fingers, her hips unconsciously riding his face and fingers.
She collapsed forward more, twitching. He pulled back, standing at the foot of the bed to finish undressing himself. She gasped at the sound of his belt hitting the floor, turning over and pulling away from him on the bed. "Enough," she said shakily. "Please." She could barely take in his pristine naked form. He was the only man she'd ever seen this way. Sylvain stalked forward like a predator, returning to her on the bed, caging her in with his long arms.
"Don't play dumb," he growled into her neck. It made her core flutter. She wanted to push him away and pull herself closer. "It's time for the main event." He trailed kisses and licks and the occasional nip up her neck to her jawbone. She shivered in his hold, gripping his arm tightly but unable to do much else.
With practiced ease, he pushed her legs apart with his sturdy thighs. She shook her head, even as she felt herself clench pleasurably in anticipation. "Relax," he said, kissing the corner of her mouth. They were face to face, one hand cradling her neck, the other adjusting her hip then lining himself up.
"How could I?" she choked, but he just chuckled darkly. The sensation of the meaty head of his cock rubbing against her made her senses swim. She wanted to fight, but it felt so good. Without meaning to, she moaned, rolling her hips down at him.
He lifted her leg and slowly sank himself into her. She gasped at the intrusion. It burned, it was tearing her apart, she wanted to run away. It was white-hot, it was amazing, her mouth watered at the pleasure of it all. She twitched helplessly, overcome with how intense it all was, as he slowly pushed himself as deep as she could take him, and then a little deeper on top of that.
Her breath was coming in gasps and moans. He cradled her face and waited for her to get accustomed to him. "Lovely," he praised, "you feel amazing, you're doing well." She keened at the praise, though she didn't want it. "I'm going to start moving."
"No." She shook her head, squeezing her eyes closed. "Too much, too much, no, please-"
He cut her off with a rough kiss, pistoning his tongue into her mouth as a little preview. He pulled back, lifting her legs so they fell open wider. "You can take it,” he said simply. He had to go slow at first; she was so tight, and her panic made it harder. He let go of one of her legs, dropping his hand to her clit. He toyed with her gently. She gasped and struggled, but it has its intended effect: she began to loosen up.
Soon, he was slamming into her with abandon, watching her hair and tits bounce with every merciless thrust. She was begging, but he wasn't listening. He focused on her body, how it seemed to draw him in deeper with every thrust, how her back arched, her gasps and moans. If he unfocused his eyes, he could pretend he was back at school with a pretty little fucktoy. "Fuck," he huffed. "Fuck, you're gorgeous. I want to see you cum again." She vehemently shook her head, but he paid no mind. His thrusts sped up, hitting her deepest places and making her gasp. He alternated playing with her nipples and rubbing her clit. "Fuck, I wanna feel it, baby. Come on. Cum for me."
She tried to resist, but his hands and his hips were clever and he was so strong. She threw her head back, her eyes squeezing shut. "No, no, no, no!" She cried out and spasmed around him.
He grunted, redoubling his efforts, chasing his pleasure in her clenching heat. She already felt good, and she felt even better through her orgasm. “Fuck,” he moaned. “Fuck, I’m close.”
“Don’t,” she gasped, “don’t come inside. Anywhere-anywhere else.”
There was a sick twist in his chest, watching her try to resist. She was still fighting it. It was interesting. “Don’t be-hah-stupid. That’s why we’re here.”
"Please!" Her voice shook with pleasure and distress both, and Sylvain's blood roared in his ears.
"Fuck, yes." He threw his head back as he exploded inside her. "Take it," he moaned, pumping deep even as he emptied. She twitched and cried out, and he felt her come again, milking him dry.
He pulled out, sliding down the bed slightly to inspect his work. She tried to twist away. He yanked her legs up, holding them together, tipping her hips up. She struggled to break his grip. “Ah-ah,” he chided, “keep it inside. We want it to take.”
“No! No, please!” The desperation in her voice made some dark impulse in him sing with something like pleasure. Something like it, but far worse. She tried to shake him off, but couldn’t. She turned her face into the sheets, whimpering.
“This is what you’re for . This is the reason you were born.” He needed to see her tears. He reached down, grabbed her chin, and turned her face. She looked up at him, face blotchy and red. Tears glittered at the edge of her eyes. He scoffed, displeased that they were wasted on his sheets. “You’re a reasonably good lay, Lady Gautier. I’ll be sure to not neglect you.” She sobbed, trying to pull away. Her tears egged him on. “Just make yourself useful. You were born to take Gautier seed. You are only as good as your ability to make a little crest-laden brat.”
She stilled and her eyes went wide, even then trained on his face. “Sylvain.” Her voice was tremulous.
"What?" he snapped, annoyed. How dare she look at him like that? He was no monster. He was just doing what needed to be done. If he wrung some pleasure for both of them out of it, was that so bad?
She hiccuped slightly, reaching towards him with a shaking hand. He fought the urge to buck, to yank back away from her touch. He leaned forward instead, near bending her in half. She laid her hand against his cheek, watching his eyes. “You’re crying.” A gentle touch, her words a breath. How could she stand to be touching him?
He swallowed thickly, and his vision blurred slightly. How long…? Tears flowed over his cheeks, trickled down his neck. She rubbed her thumb over his cheekbone. He slid her legs off his shoulder, letting them fall to the bed. He leaned over her, his arms framing her. “Shit,” he croaked, closing his eyes. He gathered her in his arms, burying his face in her shoulder, her hair. “Shit.” He embraced her tightly. After a moment’s hesitation, she wrapped an arm around his shoulder, the other hand coming to rest in his hair. She stroked him gently.
They held each other and wept.
Sylvain awoke sometime later, his head on Ingrid’s chest and her fingers idly toying with strands of his hair. She was looking off toward the window. The moon had risen, bathing the room in a very soft glow. “Sorry,” she whispered, turning to meet his bleary eyes. “Did I wake you?”
He shook his head, pushing himself up off of her. She gasped a little in the cold. He sat up, staring hard at the wall across the room as she resettled herself. She shivered, looking up at him. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Can’t have been comfortable.”
“Not what I meant. You’re soft, you know. It was very nice. I meant...before.” He crossed his legs, grabbing his thighs. “Sorry about...before.”
She blinked up at him, but he didn’t look at her. “...Can I ask you a question?”
He shrugged one shoulder, biting the inside of his cheek. The look on his face was hard and faraway.
“Those things that you said to me is that…” She struggled to find the words. “Do you feel that way? About yourself?”
He stiffened. What words, precisely, he had said to her were a bit blurry around the edges, but he was very familiar with the feelings surrounding them. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath through his nose. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, I probably do.”
She sat up, sliding next to him. He felt her warmth. Her hand on his arm. He didn't pull away, but he didn't turn to her. He didn't want her pity, and he didn't deserve her forgiveness. What else could she possibly give him?
"Our duty," she said, looking out at the room with a hard look on her face. She took a shaky breath. "Our duty is bullshit." He snorted a laugh through his nose, and she slapped his shoulder, which made him laugh harder. "I'm being serious!" she said crossly.
He tried to stop laughing, but it was a bit hopeless. He looked into her face, really looked at how she was frowning, her brow drawn together, and it got worse. He leaned against her heavily, laughing helplessly until his sides hurt. She watched his face with annoyance that softened into something like worry, holding his shoulders tentatively.
He pulled himself together after a few minutes, wiping tears from his eyes with a few wayward chuckles. "You're right," he croaked weakly, a chuckle turning into a light cough. "You're absolutely right."
He embraced her, pulling her to his chest tightly, burying his face against her shoulder. She leaned her head against his, letting her hands rest on his waist.
They sat like that in silence for a long time. He breathed her in. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "It's not enough, it's so broken and complicated. I want to tell you I won't hurt you again, that I will abandon lechery and cruelty, but I can't. I don't know how."
She nodded. "I know."
He shivered at the resignation in her voice. Like the stoic set of her face during their vows, it was armor. He made her need to protect herself; he always made sure people needed to protect themselves from him. "I want to try." The quiet desperation in his own voice surprised them both. He pulled back from her, gently folding her hands onto her lap and then gripping the bed on either side of him. He looked into her eyes. "At least...let me--I promise, I will not touch you again without your permission. I never should have."
She considered this. "And what if I say that you shall never touch me again?"
He licked his lips, keeping his focus on her face. "So be it."
Ingrid raised her eyebrows skeptically. "I suppose you shall simply take other lovers."
He winced. "I guess my reputation has preceded me." He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling sheepishly. He sobered quickly, dropping his hands. "No," he said firmly, after a moment.
"No?"
"No. If you say I shall never touch you again, then I will not touch others, either. I...I made a vow to you. I do not think highly of those that flout their word."
She looked down. "I see."
Sylvain bit his lip. "Ingrid," he said softly, drawing her attention back up. "May I hold you?"
She blushed, looking down again. "How?"
"I want to hold you in my arms. I want to embrace you to rest, want to stroke your face, your hair, your back. I just want to be close. If you want me to."
She hesitated but nodded. "Just that, then."
He drew her into his arms. She fit so well, she felt so soft. He schooled his thoughts as he pulled them both down into their bed, arranging the blankets over them. Ingrid tucked under his chin, face against his chest. Why hadn't he started with this ? This felt right, this felt safe. "Are you comfortable?"
She nodded, stifling a yawn against him. "Yeh," she mumbled, her voice already drifting.
He longed to kiss her. It burned in him. But already her breathing was leveling off, and he hadn't asked. He let it lie and closed his eyes.