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Everyone knows how sensitive Dorothea is about death. On some days, it seems a wonder that she continues to fight, that she wakes up every morning and chooses to stay. When asked, she’ll say the cause is too important for her to abandon; she’ll say she has nowhere else to go. She’ll say there are too many eligible men and women concentrated at Garreg Mach these days for her to not take advantage.
She isn’t lying about her reasons, not outright. Only by omission—because Dorothea will never admit that the biggest secret to her continued enlistment is Sylvain Gautier.
Sylvain Gautier’s dick, to be precise.
They had their share of hookups during their school days, but these new trysts are different. It was by pure chance that they began at all: a mission gone wrong, a moment of hesitation that nearly cost Dorothea her life. If not for Sylvain swooping in—and taking a blow meant for her—she very well may have. Adrenaline was running high, and she couldn’t stop crying while healing his injury. Damn, Thea, she remembers him murmuring. If you keep bawling like that, I might start to think you’re in love with me.
I’m not in love with you, she’d said, right before kissing him. Right before his fingers threaded through her hair and he pulled her into his lap, right before she realized how hard he was. His apology was immediate—he’d acted on instinct, wasn’t thinking—as was her dismissal. No, it’s fine. Can we? They were in the woods, and someone was likely looking for them, but she didn’t care. Please. Her whole body was on fire; she guided his hands to her hip, to her chest. Please. I want to feel something good.
Maybe it was the endorphins talking, but it was more than good. It was right. It made her forget about the war, occupied her mind with Sylvain’s scintillating touch and soothing words. That’s it. You’re doing so well. Let yourself enjoy it. Nothing else mattered, not even the fact that she wasn’t in love with him.
There was a brief period of time where they convinced themselves it wouldn’t happen again, that it was too spur of the moment to be replicated.
But it did. Many times—enough that they now have a damn system, a ritual of sorts. Dorothea fights, she regrets, she laments. After every battle, Sylvain keeps his evening open. As soon as she says the word, he takes the lead, because in these moments she likes not having to think.
Tonight’s melancholy isn’t too pronounced; their earlier battle was nothing more than a skirmish, their party small and mostly intact. The mission was far enough away that they couldn’t make it back to the monastery within a day, which means they’re spending the night camped beneath the stars. This throws a minor wrench into potential late-night activities, but Dorothea isn’t worried. She and Sylvain are adaptable—they wouldn’t have made it this far if they weren’t.
At dinner around the fire, she talks and laughs with everyone. These moments are manageable; the company lifts her spirits and the conversation distracts her. It’s when the camp falls quiet and she’s alone with her thoughts that she’s unable to sleep, unable to stop dwelling on her actions. When the group begins to thin out, a chill starts at the nape of her neck and travels down, bringing nothing good with it.
Her hand lands on Sylvain’s thigh, one of their secret codes. I need you.
He’s never refused her before; but every time she asks, there’s a tiny pinch of anxiety that this could be the one time he says not tonight. It lasts no more than a second before he leans down and whispers in her ear.
He tells her to get ready for bed, that he’ll stay up with the night watch an extra half hour and join her later, once everyone else is asleep. He asks her to warm herself up for him, even tells her what to fantasize about while she touches herself. Imagine me fucking you on stage at the Mittelfrank, alright? For me.
Dorothea does it for her, too, because the thought makes her heart race. She can picture herself at rehearsal, practicing dance steps long after the rest of the crew is gone; Sylvain showing up unannounced, pulling her behind one of the wooden standees and sneaking a hand beneath her skirt, slipping his fingers in and out of her until she comes with a whimper on her lips. Louder, Thea, he teases. So the audience can hear you.
That gets her wet enough to take him, fuels her anticipation as she rolls onto her side and waits. Sylvain doesn’t delay much longer, slipping casually beneath her blanket and slotting himself behind her, already stiff against her lower back. He makes himself comfortable, pulling her close and snaking an arm around her waist so he can press his hand between her legs, spreading her slick around. Dorothea shivers, picturing the smug smile on his face knowing she followed his directions. His lips are at her ear, risking the quietest ‘Very good’ he can manage. I like you obedient, she tacks on in her head. He withdraws his hand to bring his coated fingers to her mouth, making her taste herself; then he gets to work.
He fucks her slowly, quietly; everyone’s bedrolls are huddled so close together, and stealth is key. She misses his voice, the dirty things he loves to say to her when they have more privacy. You’re such a slut for me, Thea—I should really make you work for it more. How lucky that you’re too cute for me to refuse. But he compensates for the silence in other ways: with his long, deliberate thrusts that let her savor every inch of him; with his calloused palm cupped over her mouth, the heel of his hand nudging her chin upward so her neck is exposed. His lips take advantage of the opening, mouth latching onto her skin with a pleasant sting.
It’s equal parts relaxing and euphoric. She could fall asleep like this; it wouldn’t be the first time.
She slips up once, her mouth falling open with the start of a moan. Sylvain’s grip tightens to stifle the sound, his whole body going rigid, and Dorothea’s head spins. Maybe she should whine louder, she thinks; maybe she ought to wake everyone up, let the entire camp know what she lets him do to her—what makes her forget the pain. The impulse is gone in seconds, though the fantasy of it lingers. She rolls her hips back, enjoying Sylvain’s shallow breaths warming the space behind her ear. He remains tense and moves faster, craving his own release.
You’re addicted to me, he whispers, so softly that she almost thinks she imagined it. The words stick in her head, overwhelming her. Even if she could speak right now, would she deny it? Or would she embrace it, accept that his body is a drug and she’s lost all ability to resist? That he could have taken her like this even without her asking? Say it, he murmurs, burying his face in the crook of her neck, loosening his hand just enough that she can move her lips.
I’m addicted to you, she gasps, then grits her teeth when Sylvain hits her deeper, harder, over and over until his hips are trembling and a warmth spreads through her belly. The night is still; Dorothea melts into Sylvain’s arms, softening with satisfaction.
Then, in the distance, a vaguely familiar voice: Did you hear something? A pause, a hum. Maybe I imagined it.
Sylvain’s hand leaves her face and drifts down to Dorothea’s hip, giving her a light tug to coax her to roll over. There’s just enough moonlight shining down that she can make out a secretive smile on his face. It does something to her, and she has yet to determine whether this contentment when he’s near is a blessing or a curse—whether it’s building her up or causing irreparable damage. Maybe it’s both.
Let’s go again in a little bit, he says. You look like you could use another fix.
Whatever it is, she’ll worry about it later.