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Ingrid makes her way through their encampment, just the night before the battle that would decide the fate of the war. They could win, or they could burn.
There's a slight drizzle sticking her loose hair to her face, a thick cloak pulled over her armor. Her strides are purposeful, ducking her behind crates and tents to avoid detection. She carries no torch, though the sun has long set. The ground beneath her feet is turning to mud, yet this does to deter her from her path.
Tomorrow, she may prevail amongst her friends, though she would undoubtedly have to kill some, too. She could sing sweet melodies alongside her songbird, dance beneath the reflection of the moon in anticipation of a future.
Or she may die. The last pair of eyes she sees could very well belong to an old friend.
Ingrid does not want to die without first living.
When everyone had gone to sleep, save those keeping watch over the night, Ingrid snuck from her tent. They are small things, meant only for practicality and privacy as opposed to comfort. The rows of them felt endless, a constant reminder that, if she was to die in the morning, she wouldn't be alone. She keeps steadfast, not letting the thoughts of sleeping mens' dead hour approaching so closely on her cloak's hem stop her from the good that may come of her last night in Fodlan.
There's a torch lit in the tent as she approaches, it's gentle light showing between the fluttering entrance's slit. She's thankful to not wake Dorothea.
Ingrid slides through the tent's opening without announcing herself, not wanting to alert any of Dorothea's neighbors of her presence. The woman at hand has her back facing Ingrid, wearing only a white cotton nightgown, fabric laid on the ground preventing her delicate feet from stepping in the mud.
Had she not been purposeful, a knight on a mission, she may have taken the time to strip her armor. As it were, if the mere thought of Dorothea had her rushing here, the sight of her renders Ingrid incapable of anything more than instinct.
Ingrid steps forward only once before the sorceress turns around. Dorothea drops her hands where they were pulling her hair back, a cascade of chocolate curls tumbling over her shoulders, the soft swell of her breast peeking from white fabric. Her red mouth forms a perfect 'o'.
"You frightened me," Ingrid's songbird tweets, reminding her peace can still exist. She is home. "Are you okay?"
Ingrid doesn't answer, just closes the distance between them. Her arms, still clad in her white-gold armplates, wrap around Dorothea's waist, pulling her until their bodies flush together. The sorceress arms drape over her shoulders, pulling the hood of her cloak off, exposing her messy bun. One of Dorothea's hands, fingers sinfully long, presses between Ingrid's scalp and where her ribbon is tied. She scratches, causing the knight to duck her head into the milky skin of Dorothea's neck.
Not for the first time, Ingrid thinks their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces. She's just tall enough that her breasts lay over top of Dorothea's, that her face tucks neatly into Ingrid's neck, that she could slip her knee snuggly between Dorothea's thighs. If she wants.
She wants.
Ingrid keeps her face in her songbird's neck, takes in a deep breath. Cinnamon, she thinks. Not her usual, but delightful, like a sweet treat. As she releases the breath, she says, "I want you."
"You have me."
A song Dorothea sings. One they've called back and forth to each other since they were at the academy. A tease like a morning caw, saying you need only ask. Months ago, Ingrid held a woman in her arms and promised after the war. But Ingrid Galatea is no goddess, only a mortal knight on the eve of the night she may whisper her last goodbye.
Ingrid leans away from Dorothea's neck, so she can stare into the endless hazelnut sea, like her favorite candy. She frames her songbird's face, white-gold on warmed cheeks, and says, "We may die tomorrow."
She has more to say, but ever stubborn, Dorothea interrupts, "We promised not to say that!"
"I know," Ingrid assures, running her metal thumb carefully over the swell of Dorothea's cheeks, leaning forward until their foreheads touch. She hears the sound of Dorothea's nails clinging to her armor. "I pray to Sothis we don't. I pray I can protect you." Dorothea's mouth opens. "That you can also protect me!" Ingrid rushes, not wanting to be interrupted again. She needs to say this.
Ingrid pulls her face back a few inches, so she can better take her songbird in. "But if we are to look at the bright side, we'd be fools not to consider the darker parts." Ingrid reaches her hand forward, sliding behind Dorothea's neck, watching the startling difference between the curls falling over her arm and the shade of her armor. "We may live tomorrow. But Dorothea, we may die. If I die tomorrow, I don't want to never have-" Here, Ingrid hesitates.
She wishes she was one of the greats she so admires, the poets and the bards that weaved romance through battle zones. She thinks they must have only lived during peace. In all the thousands of pages she's read, all the romances she's soaked in, none spoke of just how much it hurts to love someone unconditionally. The looming threat of non-existence, which has hung over them since they reunited, has kept her from taking what she wants. She believed keeping it at a distance made her a better knight. She shouldn't put anyone through heartbreak if a spear could pierce her own heart any moment. But Ingrid had a fallacy in her logic; for once, she knows she was wrong. A knight does not keep those they love at a distance. A knight covers them with their chest plate, tucks them next to their heart.
Ingrid is tired of waiting. She is tired of letting others dictate her actions, tired of not saying and doing and taking what she wants. What she deserves, after all this. Otherwise, what was any of it for?
The thing is, though, that this is more than mere want. Ingrid may die tomorrow.
Ingrid needs.
The knight kisses her songbird, the first time to live out a fantasy long planned out in her dreams. Dorothea's lips are soft, softer than Ingrid's imagination had been able to conjure, like marshmallow fluff on her favorite dessert. She tastes as sweet, somehow able to keep herself immaculately clean despite having been on the road for several days. This reminder of Dorothea's hygienic practices sends a thrill through Ingrid, straight to the throbbing heat between her thighs, where she's reminded she had been speaking.
She pulls back to whisper in the inches between them, "I want you, Dorothea." She presses forward again, breathes into Dorothea's lips, "I need you, sweet songbird."
Ingrid has never heard a woman in the bedroom. Ingrid has never taken a woman to the bedroom, nor man nor anyone. Yet the keen Dorothea makes, the hot heat of of a whine against her teeth, makes Ingrid feral. Her desires go carnal. The knight is no more: now stands only a woman with needs.
Ingrid kisses like she fights: she dominates, devours, relishes in every taste and bite and brush of her tongue against Dorothea's, electricity moving through her veins. She feels as if she's on her pegasus, has taken a joy ride to the top of the clouds, where she won't come back down for hours.
Dorothea clings to her, makes her armor clink together, presses her breasts against the metal chest piece until her cleavage becomes obscene, flutters her lashes like she knows exactly what she's doing.
Ingrid sees no need to speak anymore. She grabs at Dorothea's ass, lamenting being unable to feel her through her armor's gauntlets. She walks Dorothea back two steps, until the brunette's back bumps into the pole that holds the tent up. Dorothea seems startled, a break in her minx behavior, and then Ingrid is grabbing her wrists and lifting them above her head, held together in one armored hand.
This stretches Dorothea, exposes the soft milky underside of her arms, lean with muscle. The long expanse of her neck, which houses her angelic gift. The delicate patch of curls where her shoulder closes. The slope of her breasts, impossibly and wonderfully large for someone of her stature. The nightgown fans out due to the jutting angle of her chest and the way Ingrid is expanding her upward. This means the knight cannot see what lies just below Dorothea's tits, which is deemed unacceptable. Ingrid uses her free hand to press cool fingertips first to the soft patch of skin exposed at the side of Dorothea's breast, then down an hour-glass waistline, mapping out the familiar shape. Ingrid has looked since she met the woman, but she has never gotten to touch. Not like this.
Dorothea is all tight, soft skin. A contradiction. She holds strength in every muscle, every tendon that expands across her stomach and hips. Yet there, just above it, lies a thin layer of soft fat. Voluminous hips and pert ass. Ingrid wants to know what her cunt looks like.
Her hand trails down, moving over the swell of Dorothea's hip bone, carefully down over the outside of her shapely thigh. Ingrid's songbird sings, little pants against Ingrid's face that turn her nipples hard beneath her chest plate. She straightens her elbow, hand grasping at the muscle a few inches above Dorothea's knee, when she suddenly realizes her hand never caught the hint of undergarments.
"Are you not wearing panties?" Ingrid asks, voice foreign to her own ears, low and dangerous in a way she didn't know she could be. Dorothea gulps, but before she can confirm or deny, Ingrid's knees thunk against the ground.
"Ingrid!" Dorothea startles, her hands falling from the pole and clashing to Ingrid's shoulders. She doesn't pull nor push.
Ingrid grabs the hem of Dorothea's nightgown, rises it up slowly. She watches as she does, every inch of skin exposed, memorized. If she survives tomorrow, she will kiss every bit of it, every patch of skin and length of hair, but there is one place in particular she is craving tonight.
She holds Dorothea's nightgown bunched at her hips, leaving the front of her legs and pelvic exposed. Nestled amongst soft brown curls sits Dorothea's lips, not quite at an angle she can get the look she wants, but tempting enough to kiss.
Dorothea is soft, hair trimmed and neat, not smelling or tasting of anything in particular. Ingrid dips her tongue out, ears listening for any noises other than the desperate little breaths of air coming from the woman above her. She tilts her chin, angling herself to better slide her tongue between Dorothea's slit, up into her moist heat.
It's warm, floods her mouth like her favorite tea, and Ingrid has never been so thirsty.
She groans, feeling her own sex pulse between her thighs. She digs her tongue further in, trying to take as much of that warm slick into her mouth as she can, lips spread wide so the tip of her tongue can press into the crown of Dorothea's labia, slide over a hood until she can flick it back to lave over her newly exposed clit.
Dorothea bites out a moan, her hands still clinging to Ingrid's shoulders. The knight leans away, trailing messy kisses alongside the inside of her thigh, biting and sucking as she pleases. Dorothea is breathing only a little heavier, chest not quite heaving, and her eyes are dilated. She looks at Ingrid as if she doesn't recognize her.
Ingrid ducks her head to lick behind Dorothea's knee, grinning when the woman lets out a mewl, as if she's afraid to make too loud of noise.
"Sing for me, songbird," Ingrid says, maintaining eye contact as she speaks before she pushes her arms between Dorothea's thighs and heaves her forward.
Dorothea lets out a yelp, her thighs pillowing Ingrid's face, knees forced over Ingrid's shoulder pads, the toes of her feet brushing Ingrid's back. Her hips press back into the pole, her arms rising frantically to grip the piece above her head, trying to keep her balanced as Ingrid holds all her weight atop her shoulders and dives back into her meal. She thinks, fleetingly, I already want seconds.
Ingrid licks the flat of her tongue from the bottom of Dorothea's slit to the crown. Her songbird finally stops holding back, thighs quivering around Ingrid's head as she lets out shakey moans, like she's on the cusp of losing control. Ingrid wants to break her.
So she moves her head side to side, digs in as far as she can. She explores at first, because she wants to. The place just behind Dorothea's hole makes her whimper. Circling and flicking at her vagina itself has Dorothea clenching her thighs. Probing her urethra has Dorothea gasping. But the clit– flicking her tongue at the underside of Dorothea's clit has her moaning, like a star, like a woman who knows she's being listened to. So once Ingrid is satisfied with her exploration, once she feels properly introduced to (almost) all the intimate parts of her new lover, she focuses there.
Pulling on knowledge derived from fiction, Ingrid sucks at the hood of Dorothea's clit, revealing in the way the woman closes her thighs over Ingrid's ears just on this side of painful before releasing. As she sucks, the clit peeks out from its hiding place, nuzzling between Ingrid's lips just an inch. Ingrid closes her mouth here, rubs her tongue over the head of the nub, over and over again until beneath her hands, over her shoulders, Dorothea is shaking.
Ingrid lets the clit pop from her mouth, extending her tongue between her slit and pushing down toward her cunt once more. The noise Dorothea makes is akin to disappointment, and Ingrid accidentally chuckles into her folds.
"Are you laughing at me?" Dorothea asks breathlessly, making Ingrid's own clit throb at the sound. "It's not nice to tease. Not very chivalrous."
"Hmm," Ingrid says, pulling back to press kiss after kiss to Dorothea's pussylips, like she might her mouth. "Chilvary is dying, anyway," Ingrid teases, grinning up at her love, lamenting she can't flick the hard nipples pressing tightly to the white cotton covering them.
"You don't believe that," Dorothea huffs, and then the dusty-pink and breathless girl morphs, hoods her eyes and grips the pole above her head. Dorothea rocks her hips forward, carefully, until her sex slides wetly against Ingrid's chin and mouth. Ingrid is drooling. "Are you gonna go back to your meal?"
Ingrid can't help the wolfish grin that spreads across her face, sure she looks half insane, and pauses just before doing as requested (as a good knight should). She says, "Yes, and I think I'll have it every night from now on, too."
But whatever reply Dorothea may have said is overshadowed by a moan.
Ingrid plays Dorothea like a strategic battle. She takes her as close to orgasm as she dares, until every chord in Dorothea's body is pulled tight, then edges her off the cliff back to reality. Her bird sings and never lets up, music to Ingrid's ears that tells her exactly where to go, how to lick, when to suck. It's a conversation between them, somehow a familiar topic yet they've never quite breached it. They never quite addressed it directly.
Ingrid will burn the world for Dorothea. She will leave behind the Galatea name, walk away from the fame of knighthood, never see Fodlan again, so long as she hears Dorothea sing.
Now that she's here, now that she's finally let herself taste, Ingrid is fasting all other meals. This body needs only Dorothea as nutrients. Needs only this sweet, gentle, delicious love.
Eventually, Ingrid's chin begins to ache, and she resolves to sucking on Dorothea's clit to give her tongue a break. She makes a mental note to work out these muscles in the future, then grits through whatever pain to circle Dorothea's hood. She plays with her clit, enjoying the woman's vibrato at every twist of Ingrid's tongue. As Dorothea approaches orgasm, Ingrid doesn't let off this time, doubles down her efforts instead. She can feel her songbird's thighs quaking, then suddenly tense up. Dorothea's hips press forward into Ingrid's face, stilling in anticipation.
Ingrid looks over Dorothea's stomach, the round of her breasts, to see her eyes shut tightly, mouth dropped open and chest moving in quick little pants. Above her head, she can see her hands gripping the pole so tightly, they've gone white at the knuckles.
Ingrid sucks, hard, and Dorothea comes undone.
It's beautiful, like a stage show just for Ingrid. She wishes she could capture the moment forever, rewatch it every second of every day. The orgasm rocks through Dorothea's body, the moan ripping from her throat like she had no control. Her feet press hard into Ingrid's back then kick out, heels clanging as they come back down. Her thighs, which had been so tense they must have ached, release, soft cushions against Ingrid's cheeks. Her songbird becomes dead weight, releasing everything inside her to coat Ingrid's chin and neck, dripping down the inside of her chest plate. Ingrid laps it up, savoring the feeling of her flinching clit, trashing against the tip of her tongue.
Ingrid pulls back with a gasp like a drowning man, not having realized she'd been holding her breath. She grips her hips, presses her head more firmly against Dorothea's pelvis and says against her wet pussylips, "Careful." Then she helps lower the sorceress to the ground, makes sure she's stable before Ingrid lets her go.
She stands, going to wipe a hand over her mouth before she remembers she has armor gauntlets on. Dorothea laughs deliriously at her, her cheeks painted red and eyes a bit hazy. Ingrid's songbird raises her hand, uses her fingers to wipe the mess off Ingrid's face as best she can, then pulls her down into a kiss.
Ingrid holds her like she's a delicate book, a first edition. Or perhaps like a plate of her favorite meal she'd hate to drop.
When Dorothea pulls away, there's a glint in her eye. She reverses their positions far too easily, traps Ingrid to the pole and presses their chests together, until she creates cleavage once more.
There's only a few inches separating them, Ingrid the taller, yet she's never felt smaller than Dorothea more than in this moment.
Dorothea says, "Have you ever been with a woman, Ingrid?"
"I've never been with a man, to be fair."
"How were you so good at that?" She asks, a twinkle in her eye like she has a secret. "Is it all those books? Hm? Ingrid, I didn't think you read books like that."
"Then you don't know me," Ingrid chuckles, feeling warm at the laugh she gets in return.
"Can I touch you?" Dorothea asks, like she even needs to, and Ingrid nods.
Her armor is stripped carefully, Dorothea taking her time to touch every bit of skin exposed. First her fingertips, the skin at her forearms and biceps. She even ducks down to nose at thighs, a bit of anxiety creeping up Ingrid's neck before Dorothea stands back up and crowds her to the pole.
"After we survive tomorrow," Dorothea says, because of course she would, "I'm also going to eat you out. I'm going to look at your glorious naked body, too," she smirks, far too sexy for Ingrid to handle, even though she expected just as much from the woman. "But I'm a bit impatient to get my fingers inside you right now."
Oh, Ingrid hadn't known something like that would make her tingle, but she likes it. She drapes her arms over Dorothea's shoulders, brings their faces closer together to kiss just as the sorceress's hand slips down the front of Ingrid's leggings. She still has her chest piece on, leaving Dorothea's wonderful cleavage on display.
As fingers brush between her lips, Ingrid gasps. Where Dorothea tried to keep herself quiet at first, Ingrid is a lost cause. Everything is too sensitive, feels too good. Out of curiosity, she'd touched herself before, while reading. Only her clit, and only quick circles until the point was met. But this was a whole new experience.
Dorothea definitely knows what she's doing in a way only a skilled woman can. She takes two fingers on either side of Ingrid's clit, pulls and jerks until Ingrid's knees are shaking, not having realized she could feel so good from non direct contact. Then Dorothea pushes her fingers back, wrist bent against the seat of her pelvis, and slides her middle finger into Ingrid's cunt.
Ingrid gasps loudly, entire body surging forward as she grabs Dorothea's shoulders, their cheeks flush together as she starts to pant, Dorothea sliding her finger up and down, in and out, curling and uncurling.
"Dorothea," she whimpers when the woman trails her thumb over her hood.
"What happened to songbird?" The tease makes Ingrid duck her face into Dorothea's neck, pulling her tighter to her chest, her hips wiggling up to give the sorceress more access. "Oh, baby. You went from so sexy and confident to so sexy and sweet, hm? Does it feel good?"
"Yes," Ingrid whimpers, the low voice from earlier long gone. Ingrid has never felt more like a woman, and she loves it.
She's been more versions of herself tonight than she knew existed.
This solidifies Dorothea's importance, she decides.
"Good," Dorothea says, peppering kisses on Ingrid's neck. She jumps when Dorothea suddenly sinks her teeth in. "I want to make you come so hard you see stars. Can you do that for me, baby?" Ingrid nods. "Can I add another finger?" Quickly, another nod. Dorothea chuckles again.
The second finger pinches just for a moment, just as it's pushing past her initial ring, and then Ingrid lets out a low, drawn-out moan, unable to keep from throwing her head back. Dorothea, like a mad man, starts to suck at the newly exposed parts of her neck.
She fucks her fingers in and out of Ingrid, keeping a tight grip on her hip and leaving her pressed to the pole so she doesn't fall, despite her legs shaking. Her thumb keeps swiping over her clit, every now and then, just enough to tease.
When Dorothea pushes a third finger in, Ingrid's entire body seizes, thighs clamping tight over Dorothea's wrist until she whispers let up baby that hurts.
"I'm sorry," Ingrid whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut tight. "I've never-"
"No, no," Dorothea says quickly, kissing her to shut her up. Her free hand moves, presses against Ingrid's shoulder, tries to pull her in closer even though that isn't possible. "Shh, shh baby. You're so perfect. You feel so good, so soft here," she spreads her fingers, making Ingrid's vision go black for a moment as her body shakes violently. "That's it. Good girl, just relax and let your songbird take care of you."
"Dor," is all Ingrid manages to say, not able to get out Dorothea. Their sweaty faces are pressed together once more, one of her hands gathering ringlets.
"Yeah," Dorothea says again, then curls her fingers in a way that makes white cut across Ingrid's vision this time, and she lets out a wail so loud it's sure to wake the entire encampment. "Oh, there we go," there's a grin in Dorothea's voice before she repeats the motion and Ingrid goes nonverbal.
It takes pathetically little time for Ingrid to cum, Dorothea's three fingers curling only thrice and her thumb passing her clit before the orgasm rocks through her. Dorothea fucks her through it, holds her and tells her out good she did and how pretty she is when she cums.
By the end, the two are exhausted and fall slowly to their knees, Dorothea's fingers still inside her.
Because now feels an appropriate time, Ingrid presses their foreheads together and says, "I love you."
"I love you," Dorothea repeats, and they seal that promise with a kiss.
Dorothea helps her take off the rest of her armor and offers her a long sleep shirt. They crawl into Dorothea's cot, far too small for both of them, especially considering Ingrid's wide frame. She's not a knight for nothing.
Ingrid lays on her side, Dorothea pressed behind her and fitting into all her curves. They hold hands over Ingrid's stomach, staring out into the dark tent. Tomorrow, they march. Tomorrow, the war ends. They either lose or they win. They either live or they die.
They either kill or are killed.
"Will you sing for me?" Ingrid asks, closing her eyes.
Dorothea does, quietly, in her ear, the feeling of each exhale felt on the back of Ingrid's neck. The song's a soft melody, heard only by the two women in the tent that night, felt deep within their bones. It wraps around Ingrid like a prayer, a promise, and lulls her to sleep.
She hopes, no matter who wins tomorrow, her and Dorothea survive.