He is not certain when it had started.
In fact, if pressed, Sylvain might have said it had been birthed the first time he had seen her, a few Moons ago. Her blue hair smelling of flowers, the sturdy, black breastplate, the short skirt, the legs covered with lace and the navel not covered at all. Her mercenary outfit was absolutely delectable. A shame Seteth insisted in more decorum within the academy walls.
Perhaps.
Then again, perhaps it had been part of him since his first breath, lying dormant, waiting until she was near enough to touch in order to fully awaken. Something of a savage nature, passed down through his blood since Gautier himself. The original sin of all men of his family, what shuts them out from the Blue Sea Star since the beginning of time.
Again, he was not sure.
Even though he could not recall exactly when it had started, he knew what it was: it was an ache branded deep in his marrow, an ache that made him…Thirsty. Ravenous.
The ache had a name: Byleth Eisner. The Professor.
He had tried to control it. Suppress it. Because he knew, dammit he knew, whether it be by her father's hand or the Church's holy sword, he would be flayed alive if anyone discovered his need for someone like her.
However, this knowledge did nothing to remedy the situation, much to the contrary. Concealing it only fed the hunger that consumed him.
A cacophony of perfumes and colognes, mixed with the damp of the main hall and the smell of wet stone, pressed in on him like bodies of the students themselves, leaving Sylvain nauseated and longing for a bath.
As he turned away from the crush of people, Sylvain's breath caught.
The Professor was striding down the hallway toward the staircase and the Church's administrative offices, chatting nonchalantly with that bird-like voice of hers, quiet but musical, with Ferdinand von Aegir and Lorenz Gloucester, oblivious to all around her save her two student companions.
Her azure hair, resemblant of the field on his nation's flag, fell like silk on her generous chest, caressing what little skin showed from the circular cleavage of the boring, grey dress'. He could not help but regret the fact she did not teach the Blue Lions, as it is clear for any to see how meant she is to be of the Kingdom's.
Perhaps not the whole Kingdom, perhaps she ought to belong to Gautier, exclusively. Better yet, to be the jewel on the Margrave's diadem. That should entice the greed of every House in Fódlan, but such a precious sapphire would know its place.
Sylvain felt himself salivate.
Her boisterous hair formed a brilliant halo around her face; her robes fluttered behind her as if they were admirers too awed by her beauty to dare caress her skin. No matter the hour, no matter what she wore, the Professor would dominate every thought he had and every woman he fucked would only be a pale imitation.
By necessity, she slowed as she approached. In order to watch her better, he slipped off to the side of the swarm of students congregating just outside the bridge's gate. Just as she moved past him, Raphael Kirsten collided into her from behind, sending her careening to him.
"Sorry, Professor!" The blond meathead called, as he ran ahead, not stopping to check on the damage made. "Lunch hour, gotta run!"
"My apologies, Sylvain." She said, wincing as she glanced up at the redhead with her hands flat against his chest.
The green flecks in her eyes momentarily stunned him into silence, as if he was in the presence of a mystical being, an envoy of the Goddess herself. The Professor had never once spoken to him privately, and she certainly had never touched him before.
Sylvain felt as if he might suffocate.
"'s okay." He managed before she backed away and vanished back into the crowd.
The loss of her touch crippled him so fully, he thought he would die.
The next few weeks were a blur of reliving the moment her hands had made contact with his chest.
Sylvain even found himself beginning to think of her as Byleth, now that they had spoken.
Every day, just as the lunch bell tolled through the monastery, he positioned himself exactly where she had been pushed into his arms, but every day, without the Golden Deer brute bumping into her, she seemed to squeeze by without even the briefest of touch.
It was irritating. Did she not know of his need to hold her?
The Dining Hall echoed with the clicking of forks against plates and the buzz of breakfast conversation. The smell of the rashers permeated the warm air, and all was well: Byleth was seated at the third table from the right, sixteen seats from the front, and Sylvain could see her easily.
Does Byleth like rashers? How is it that I don't know whether she likes rashers or not? Sylvain pursed his lips, annoyed with himself. She seemed to prefer toast, but he thought that toast might simply be her breakfast of convenience, one that she ate only when she was in a hurry. So, what should he serve her every morning after he and she were…?
"Hey, Sylvain?" Ashe Ubert said, looking up from his nearly empty plate and jolting Sylvain out of his reverie. "Would you like to spar with us in the afternoon? Sir Gustave will give a seminar on axes. He's supposed to be the highest authority on these at the monastery."
Sylvain glanced over the kitchen boy's shoulder to the neighbouring table to see if the Professor had put any rashers on her plate during the last couple minutes. He felt his housemate's eyes follow his gaze.
The redhead looked back down at his toast without meeting the boy's stare.
"Nah. I've got something tonight." Sylvain said, pushing his cold eggs around with his fork.
Felix chimed in, spittle flying.
"Come on. You haven't trained your footwork in ages. Stop thinking of tavern wenches and do something productive for once." He demanded, with that no-nonsense tone he lorded over the entire academy, as if every other pursuit in life other than defeating your dead brother was useless.
Furthermore, intentionally or not, directly or not, the blue-haired swordsman had compared the Professor to a wench, and this is unforgivable.
"I've got something." The Margrave's son repeated, an unmistakable edge to his voice settled the subject.
Dimitri laid his fork down and eyed him strangely, joining the conversation. "Well, if you change your mind, we'll be on the training grounds until around 7."
"'kay."
Sylvain watched as His Highness and his fan club stood and stalked away.
He returned his gaze to the other table. Byleth was cutting something on her plate, her graceful fingers grasping the knife as if she were trying to evoke a delicate melody out of a violin. It sent shivers down his back.
How could fingers so deadly be that graceful? How could a mercenary be so resemblant to an Empress of old? She would be a Margravine to shame all others that came before her.
She wiped her mouth with a napkin. Oh, if only he could have that napkin! As she finished her meal, she reached for her rucksack and motioned to leave.
Would she turn and look his way? Would the Goddess favour him, and grant him the good fortune of glimpsing the colour of her eyes?
Apparently not.
Remaining at least ten steps behind, Sylvain followed her out of the Dining Hall and down the garden pathway, through the upper dormitories, until she ducked into the entrance of the girls' toilet.
He rounded a corner and sat down on a bench to wait until she reappeared, removing a roll of parchment from his bag so those passing by would assume he was studying. When she emerged, he gathered his belongings and trailed behind her to the Black Eagles classroom.
Sylvain tarried by the door and watched as she settled the books she carried on the table and pulled out her chair.
He had become mesmerized with how her fingertips would caress things: he swallowed hard as he watched them wrap around the wood of a chair as she pulled it away from the table before sitting down for class.
The Adrestian students began to trickle into the classroom, one at a time. It was still early and those entitled nobles knew nothing about punctuality, nor did they appreciate the grand privilege it was to be taught by the Professor, and so were always late. All, bar one. Sylvain notes with great distaste how the Hresvelg princess hanged around her instructor, touching and relishing her presence, invading into the space that, by any reasonable account, belonged to him.
As the bell rung and he had to leave for the adjoining classroom, Sylvain passed through the open door. The moment he decided to sneak one last glimpse, one last hit of pleasure he would have until lunch hour, she looked up. Goddess help him, her eyes… They were the most mesmerizing amber he had ever seen. It reminded him of the colour of the frozen seas on the coast of Sreng, the colour of Alizé liquor as it falls neat on the glass.
Maybe he would indulge in some of that tonight, since he was not yet able to indulge in her… Company.
The next day was a Tuesday, so after dinner, Sylvain made his way to the library, winding through the dark staircase determinedly. At 7 PM, Byleth would start tutoring Petra Macneary in magic at the table by the shelves containing the acts and financial ledgers of the Church from the VIII Century, and he had to arrive before they did.
Sylvain loved Tuesdays. The Brigidian princess rarely cancelled, so it was almost guaranteed that he would be able to see her in the library. There were three tables in the section; Sylvain could settle two tables away, still watch her, yet be far enough away not to be noticed.
Tuesdays were quite different from Thursdays, when Byleth might show up with Ferdinand, or, Goddess help him, that nutter Bernadetta von Varley in tow. Based on the curious stares from the purple-haired girl, somehow the recluse seemed to know Sylvain was not there simply to study.
Outside of those two days, she would come alone. Sylvain could never predict exactly when she would arrive or precisely what section she would sit in. It was maddening.
He arrived; his nerves already jittery at the prospect of being so close to her. He unpacked his rucksack and checked his pocket watch discreetly. She would be there any minute. He swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on the parchment in front of him.
Sooner rather than later, she was there.
The hands that had touched his chest reached for the zipper on her bag… Her large tome…
Sylvain did his best not to stare.
A little less than an hour later, Macneary rose from his seat, her chair scraping loudly against the slate floor. She picked up her books for assigned reading and a stack of parchment filled with mathematical and occult formulas and diagrams, and bobbed her head in thanks.
Byleth smiled softly at her. "No problem, Petra. You're doing great. See you next Tuesday."
At that, the filthy foreigner turned around to the stacks of books behind her, placed whatever she would not read that evening back on the shelf, then turned and hobbled down the aisle.
Byleth remained when Macneary left, as she often did. She rummaged through her bag and finally extracted her advanced mathematics text, parchment, and a quill. Sylvain smiled inwardly: math meant she would be there for a while.
Closing his eyes, the nobleman concentrated on trying to smell her; she was slightly too far away for him to fully breathe in her scent, so he resumed staring at his Political Philosophy book.
A few minutes later, he heard her sigh in frustration. He glanced up to find that she had broken her quill and was using her coat's sleeves to clean up the spilled ink. As he suppressed the urge to present her with one of his own, she sighed again, and began to pack up.
As she walked by, she tossed the broken quill in the waste bin to his left.
As soon as Byleth was out of sight, Sylvain sprung out of his chair and picked through the garbage until he found her broken quill. Abandoning his schoolwork, he settled into the chair she'd just vacated. He sighed happily: it was still warm. Leaning his head against the cold wood of the table, he breathed deeply, trying to inhale any essence of her that she might have left behind.
The air I'm breathing in might have been inside her! We're sharing the same air!
He closed his eyes in bliss and let his tongue trace where her elbows had met the wood.
"May I help you, Lord Gautier?"
Sylvain jumped, and opened his eyes to discover Seteth staring at him threateningly.
"No, sir."
He gave him an odd look. "Why, pray tell, were you licking the table, Lord Gautier?"
"Eh…"
"Perhaps it is time for you to return to your dorm." The green-haired man said, dismissing him with a stare and a brief wave of his hand in the direction of the exit.
As he retreated down the aisle away from the Archbishop's aide, he brought the vane of the broken quill's feather to his lips and imagined he could taste her.
Today.
Today would be the day he would speak to her.
Today he would greet her, just a passing-by-hello, just a simple hey-how's-it-going to keep him in the forefront of her mind.
It was not as if they had not spoken before. It was not as if they had not touched before.
In the last week, he had imagined all that would follow his greeting: Byleth would seek him out and study at his table in the library; she would inherently understand their connection, a connection that never needed words. He would protect her, he would grant her any wish she might have, and in return, she would share her deepest secrets. They would become lovers. She would tell him she could not live without him.
That she would die without his touch.
All of that was going to start today. When he said hello to her in the library.
However, when Byleth did not show up for her usual tutoring session with Macneary, Sylvain abandoned his plans and began to panic. Why did she not come? Was she hurt? Sick?
Did she not know he would be worried about her?
In the main hall the following day, Byleth walked by without even glancing in his direction. She was chuckling at something that the Hresvelg princess had whispered in her ear.
She did not look at him, and she was not in the library when she was supposed to be.
She was ignoring him.
How dare she?
The bounce of her soft locks taunted him. They needed to be tamed. Subdued.
Like all of her.
He would take care of that.
The field mouse squirmed and trembled in Sylvain's hands as he removed it from its cage. He had seen the man from Abyss do it to a spider last night, so how hard could it be?
"Dulam." He enchanted. "Freeze."
It obeyed dutifully.
Professor Manuela thought him to be a stupid and lazy skirt-chaser, but little did she know that Sylvain Gautier was the strongest mage amongst the Blue Lions that year, perhaps from all years. While he dwelled on the north, he knew not of his potential, buried under the Margrave's prejudice against mages, thinking them weak. Alas, a man with such a fractured soul, with so many desires latent on his being, it was unsurprising how well he took to the dark arts. With some training, he could be the greatest enchanter in Fódlan.
He was also well-read. So much so, he remembered that, not fifty years before, the faraway Empire of Emblia fell to a rebellion. As people stormed the palace and looted the riches, the tomes of a spell darker than any other born in his homeland spread to the four winds, carried by unsavoury sorts that tended to find painful demises.
It had been difficult to secure a copy of the tome he needed, but he was patient, rich and well-connected. As the instructions for a mind-controlling spell fell on his hands, the vendor found himself with a dagger to the stomach. He wanted no trails back to him.
He spent the rest of the evening testing the limits of the loathsome curse. He did not find any.
Now all he needed was a little more practice on something, or rather, someone, a bit little sophisticated than a mouse.
Because Byleth—no, she always be The Professor, he thought fiercely—still had not spoken to him since that day in the hall outside the stairwell. It was about time she did.
He would teach her to.
Even if she did not want to, he would make her. It might pain him to use such a curse on her, but he will bear it.
Because she was his. She just did not know it yet.
Sylvain followed his colleague until Leonie Pinelli entered the girls' toilet just outside the training grounds. He strode past the door, turned a corner, and waited until she emerged.
"Dulam."
He took her by the hand and led her to Professor Jeritza's abandoned office.
Sylvain opened the door to find a cozy sitting room, complete with a thick rug and fireplace. Apparently, the Goddess agreed with his plan. Otherwise, how would he manage to abduct this girl from right under her class leader's nose?
He placed the unattractive peasant on the sofa and settled into the chair opposite her.
"Tell me that you think I'm good looking." He ordered, lazily, relaxing his feet on the ottoman and playing with the buttons on his uniform shirt
"You're very good looking, Sylvain." She said through a hazy smile.
So, it works. He is, indeed, the greatest mage in the continent. The power lights up on his veins, it is a sensation he had never encountered. It is as if he had a new Crest, a more powerful Crest, and it is activating and pulsating potency to his body.
As he discards his own coat and hangs it on the chair orderly, the nobleman proffers his second command. "Tell me the Professor is lucky to have me as her man."
"She's a very lucky woman to have you, Sylvain." The mercenary-to-be responds in the same dazed voice.
"Tell me you would fuck me if you were her." He smiles wolfishly.
"Absolutely." She said, licking her lips.
Well, so far, she was taking orders just fine. Since he had a more-than-willing witch at his disposal, he decided to make things a little more interesting.
He extended his arm. "Lick my hand."
Pinelli moved toward him, fell to her knees, and dragged her tongue across his palm. His cock demanded attention.
"Go back to the couch and take off your knickers." Sylvain commanded.
Raising his eyebrow at how fast she complied, he added, "You're going to touch yourself, and I'm going to watch you."
Pinelli laid down, hiked up her skirt, and drew down her knickers with the stockings, exposing herself to him. She pulled back her folds with one hand and slowly rubbed her clit with the other.
She began to moan.
Thinking of blue eyes and silky hair, he unzipped his trousers and joined Pinelli stroke for stroke, grateful his colleague's eyes were closed.
When they were both finished, he compelled her to dress and led her to the door.
Would she remember anything of her hour here? Sylvain had no idea, but he was thankful the tome also dealt with memory spells, nonetheless. He placed a purple crystal on the woman's forehead.
"Forget it."
And he let the door swing shut behind them.
"Teach me how."
Dorothea Arnault, gold-digging whore that she was, may not have needed the spell. The songstress just might have volunteered, just for the chance to birth a Crested child.
However, as this is bound to be a recurrent arrangement, he would not want to risk a bastard, and he would not trust this slut to be honest with him about the risks of conception. Besides, she would try to tell him things that would please him, and not what he actually needed to know, and so it was best to loosen her tongue.
She was stretched out before him on the couch in the old office, legs parted languidly, naked and eager under his touch. While he did not want to fuck her, per se, he did want to know how best to please his woman, and Arnault was going to show him.
Arnault took his finger, licked it, and steered it toward her clit.
"Put it there." She breathed, placing her hand on top of his own, and guiding it into a slow rhythm.
She took two fingers of his other hand, wet them with her tongue, and pushed them in to her entrance.
Arnault was soft and warm and wet inside. His cock wanted in, but he was saving himself for the Professor. He might flirt, he might kiss, he even fed his seed to many a woman and would do so again lightly, but there was only one woman he would dare to defile, and it was not this one.
"Fuck me harder." She urged.
So, women like to be fucked hard, do they? That could be arranged.
He smiled as he shed his belt to bind her wrists.
Sylvain waited near a statue, his back propped up against the wall, his arms and ankles crossed. The Professor strode down the hall purposefully, clutching her bookbag and no doubt thinking about what classwork she needed to prepare when she got to the library.
He stepped out of the shadow.
She jumped.
"Sylvain, may I help…"
So she knew his name, did she?
He cast the curse, without need for speech or sigil. Her eyes stuttered in response; she was fighting it. Her mind was strong and was bravely fighting against his control. Her will felt like a parasite, occupying the headspace that should, and soon will, be dedicated exclusively to him. A parasite he soon silenced, if not eradicated.
He smiled in pride. Pinelli and Arnault had never fought. It was almost as if they welcomed no longer being in control, no longer thinking for themselves. They were weak, sad little puppets. He almost felt sorry enough to shed his attention upon them once more, but there will be no time for that when he managed to tame this lioness.
His woman.
Her lips were frozen forming the first letter of a pronoun, as if she were about to worry her lip. His cock twitched at the beauty of it.
Although he abhorred hearing foul language from women, he made a decision. She would speak a certain word many, many times before this night was over, although as a plea, rather than a curse.
He took a step towards her.
"Enter the closet behind you." He commanded.
She turned and walked slowly and jerkily towards the broom closet, opened the door, and moved inside. He had prepared the space earlier for them: the back wall was devoid of its usual brooms and mops. He shut the door, locking it with a brief wave of his hand.
"Face me." The nobleman said, his voice teeming with excitement.
Her eyes widened a fraction, and her pupils dilated in fear, the blue having retreated into the black. Pity. He loved the blue.
Moving until he was close enough to reach her clothing with the tips of her fingers, he rid her of her offensive black coat, the colour of those who try to take her away from him, and ripped the school-mandated grey dress open with one quick motion.
The buttons that fastened it from behind clattered softly around them on the slate floor.
He gripped her neck with his left hand, his fingers around one side pushing into the back of her neck, his thumb thrusting her chin upward, exposing her ivory skin. He closed the gap between them, and took possession of her mouth.
He broke the kiss. Her mouth was swollen, but her eyes continued empty. He wonders how experienced she is, and whether the memory prism on his pocket would be powerful enough to wipe it all out.
"You want me." Sylvain whispered, even as his training made the vocalization unnecessary, and stepped back to watch her eyes accept him.
He yanked his shirt out from his uniform pants.
"Professor…" He moaned against her skin.
The bastardization of her academic title saturated the air in the small space he dutifully prepared to take her for himself. Forever.
"Professor…" He growled again. "Mine."
He advanced, his fingers closing around the skin of her neck again, his other hand unbuckling the belt of his trousers.
Sylvain has a skip on his step this morning. He is to have tea with the professor after the ninth bell, and it was always quite a pleasant experience for him, having her time and attention to himself, listening to her sweet conversation and the gracious care she took in serving him.
Besides, if he ever bores of the tea and the confectionary, he can always cast a spell and make it more interesting for them both.
He has been so pleased with their arrangement of late, he is seriously considering transferring to the Black Eagles, just so he can have his beloved every hour of every day.
The nobleman enters her chambers unannounced, as always. "Good morning, Professor."
"Oh, hello, Sylvain." The woman greets with an inviting smile. "You are here early this morning, no?"
"My apologies, I couldn't wait another minute to come." The horseman responds, a flirtatious smile insinuating he was not sorry at all.
Regardless, the woman was completely accommodating of him. "It is no trouble; I was also anxious for your arrival. Why don't you take a seat on the table and I will brew your tea."
Sylvain smirks, doing as she said. "Thank you, Professor. You take very good care of me, as always."
Byleth chuckles. "Oh, it is no trouble. Would you be having bergamot as always?"
He nods. "Of course. I trust you have been taking good care of the herbs I sent to your room last week."
"Certainly, it is a gift from you, after all." She responds, amene. "I have been keeping the box safe on my trunk, just let me pick it up."
The blue-haired woman walks behind him, her steps lighter than a professional dancer's.
"Dulam."
Before Sylvain can have any reaction, his mind goes blank and his limbs relax uselessly to the side.
"Oh, naïve little mages. How many of those I have dealt over the years!" The Professor chuckles to herself. "Did you really think I would fall for such a simple trick? That I would succumb to a weak enchanter like yourself? Or did you actually think yourself to be powerful?"
Before he could respond, as the spell compels him to do, the woman slaps him into silence.
"I am the Progenitor God, foolish boy. I hold eternal judgement of the mortals' souls on my left hand." She barks.
Sylvain is unable to speak, unable to think, but he does feel fear. He feels himself sweat, his blood freeze. However, as the fear takes hold, he also feels excitement, anticipation for her next move.
"No matter. I will find a use for you. You see, I have long desired a vassal of my own. Edelgard has Hubert, and Dimitri has Dedue. However, none seemed too inclined for the position." She smirks dangerously. "But not you, right, dear? You will be more than happy to do as I say."
He wants to nod. To say that he would serve her with all his heart and might, that he would do whatever she commands of him and much, much more, but he is held still by the power of her magic.
"I know you will." Byleth said, smiling and taking a seat on the table in front of him. "Oh, you shall be extraordinary. A Margrave's son, as my vassal. How amusing, never in my many years I have seen such a thing. We have much to discuss, but first, do serve my tea, Sylvain."
He obeyed wordlessly.