Linhardt did not want to sleep alone tonight.
As he looked deep into Caspar's eyes - a midday sky stretching endlessly within the pools of blue - he felt the pit of his stomach begin to stir.
Despite the cool hue of Caspar's irises, a fire burned within them. A feistiness - a heat that always managed to make Linhardt's chest burn.
And he could not resist. He took Caspar by the hand, and felt the flames in his chest begin to flicker. No - he did not want to sleep alone. On this last night before the Black Eagles were to go to war, Linhardt knew he wouldn't be able to settle until he'd finally released what had been pent up inside of him.
Love.
That was the only word for it. During their youth, the small boy of Bergliez had been almost abrasive - so lively and fiery that it had made Linhardt exhausted just from being around him. But, now, that had changed. The older they'd grown, the more Linhardt had come to like him. Love him.
Long for him.
He did not know when it had happened, but Linhardt von Hevring had fallen. Everything that once seemed irritating - now endearing. Caspar's gall, and cockiness. His energy - his utter need of approval. His borderline cluelessness: the loveable sort of dopiness that cradled his face now upon having his hand taken.
"Lin…?" he asked, as the two began to walk.
But Linhardt did not reply. His heart danced in his chest at the thought of what was to come - at what he wanted to do.
He wanted to confess. He wanted Caspar to know how he felt. How he desired Caspar as much as the young man desired to prove himself. How he would love Caspar regardless of who he was - of whether he was an heir or not - he wanted to let it all flow from his lips before they were whisked away to war-
Yet, when they returned to Linhardt's room, and the heir of Hevring lit the candles to cast a low, warm firelight across Caspar's face, his breath caught in his chest.
He was so beautiful. His jawline was sharp, and his face full. His eyes were alight with a sort of confusion; he looked so fresh, and winsome-
Until he smirked. Something flashed within those irises of aquamarine, and his lips curled into something devilish.
And Linhardt could not resist. He'd never initiated anything before in his life. Never before had his interest been so piqued - had he wanted something this desperately. But, that smirk lit a passion within him, bringing to life a longing was so fierce - so raw - that he could not help himself.
He pushed his body against Caspar's. The other man emitted a noise - a sort of satisfied breath - before Linhardt cupped his face in his hands, and pressed his lips against Caspar's own. The breath became a whimper, and at once Linhardt felt hard hands in his hair. Caspar grasped gently, but as his fingers tightened around the tresses of emerald, Linhardt felt the fire in his chest burn fiercer.
He'd wanted this for so long.
Despite trying to deny it - instead burying his desires in thoughts of love and nothing more - Linhardt had to admit he'd dreamed of this. Dreamed of the man before him in every way imaginable. Wanting his love, but fearful of rejection. Craving his lust, but anxious to initiate.
Now, though, he was his.
Linhardt could scarcely believe it, but Caspar's tongue pushed its way between his lips, and his strength took over. Caspar took steps forward, forcing Linhardt backwards until he felt the cold of the wall upon his back and the shorter man's body against his own. His lithe and delicate hands slid from Caspar's face, down his bare neck, and rested against his chest. Luckily, Caspar had had the sense to remove his armour beforehand, for Linhardt felt the soft fabrics of his underclothes beneath his fingertips, and he worked swiftly to undo buttons.
Caspar interrupted their kiss to breathe. He said no words, but his eyes flickered open and pierced him with a gaze; his expression was so full of lust, and disbelief, and passion - all emotions that Linhardt returned tenfold. Both of their chests heaved heavily, and their hot breath intermingled, filling the air between them with such a lustful passion.
When Caspar leaned in once more, his lips didn't meet Linhardt's own; they pressed against his neck with soft, wet noises, and the man breathed in deeply as his nose caught Linhardt's natural scent. Whatever he smelled must have roused him, for his next movement was a bite: a playful nip at the tender skin of Linhardt's neck.
It caused him to emit a moan, and made his blood course throughout his body even faster. His hands worked hard to undo Caspar's buttons, at last freeing the man's torso and exposing it to the heat of the room.
Now, all that clothed him were trousers. The young mage's heart skipped a beat in his chest as he imagined what lay beneath. But, as his gaze strayed downwards, he found he did not need to imagine; Caspar strained visibly against the thin material, and Linhardt emitted a little whine.
A fantasy of his. He could enact it. He sunk to his knees, at eye-level with Caspar's hips and the rage hidden beneath the cotton. Linhardt's hands reached up, undoing Caspar's laces, and pried desperately at the waistband to get at what he desired-
But Caspar bent down before Linhardt got the chance. He placed his hands around Linhardt's ribs and, despite being so much smaller, lifted him with ease. With a grunt, Caspar turned and headed for the bed, but Linhardt wrapped his legs around his bare waist, grasping hold of the short, sky-blue locks of hair, and made their lips meet again.
They kissed like that for endless moments more; fireworks burst beneath Linhardt's eyelids as he felt Caspar's fervour - felt his tongue clashing desperately against his own, and the little bites against his lip. It made him chuckle; a low, amused noise was emitted from his throat, causing his lover to pull away and fix him with an accused look.
"What…?" Caspar asked with a wicked smile.
Linhardt's snigger remained. "You."
"Me?" Caspar continued towards the bed now, letting Linhardt fall to the soft sheets and mattress below.
"Your desperation." Linhardt felt himself being straddled - felt Caspar's knees against his hips as the man loomed over him.
He began to undress Linhardt too, and that infuriating cockiness resurfaced as he pulled away the mage's robes. "My desperation? You're the one who brought me back here."
"How could I resist?" Linhardt purred, angling his chin upwards to gesture for a kiss.
Caspar obliged happily, freeing Linhardt of his robes so that both of their torsos were bare, before lowering his head. His hot lips pressed against the skin of his chest, feeling so foreign but so, so welcome.
It was a delicate area, and one that was rather ticklish too, Linhardt realised, as he began to squirm at Caspar's nose trailing across his skin. He planted five kisses as he moved his head downwards, each one inches lower, until he reached the material of Linhardt's underwear.
How was this happening? Butterflies erupted through Linhardt's stomach each time he thought about it; the handsome, beautiful, wonderful young man he'd admired for so long, kissing him. Almost naked above him. Easing him into the pillows while he worked his sensual magic-
"You're so hairless," Caspar giggled suddenly, snapping Linhardt from his aroused stupor.
He breathed a laugh, but his brain was foggy - as though steam had risen from the heat of their bodies in the cool night air to cast a haze over his mind. Linhardt shook his head, his hand found Caspar's hair, and he pushed the man's face downwards.
And Caspar got to work. Lips felt good against Linhardt's chest, but were infinitely better elsewhere. Saliva was hot and his tongue was quick, and Linhardt was soon a moaning mess amidst his pillows and bedsheets, trying to keep a climax at bay to save it for another time.
Another time came quickly. Soon, Caspar filled him in ways Linhardt had only dreamt of, and at last the young mage knew what it felt like to be pleasured. It was hard, and fast, and Caspar made delightful groans as he worked himself up listening to the soft noises Linhardt made into the pillows.
At one point, Linhardt was lifted so that he sat upon Caspar's lap, his legs around the shorter man's waist again, and their hips still rocking together. "I like it when you kiss me," Caspar managed through pants, and Linhardt wasted no time in connecting their lips once more.
"I've wanted this for so long," he could not help but whisper back.
Caspar pulled away; while his eyes were still glazed from their passion and pleasure, they took on an expression of seriousness. "You have?"
Linhardt's laugh was slow, and lazy. "For years now."
He had not expected his confession to come like this - to come so easily, in the midst of such lust and desire. He had not expected to whisper the words into Caspar's lips as his bare thighs wrapped around the other man's hips, but he would not have it any other way.
"I… Why didn't you say something…?" Caspar brushed emerald hairs from out of his lover's eyes. "I've felt the same for as long as I can remember."
The men began to love again, falling once more into the bedsheets as they became more impassioned, whispering their love and adoration and lust until eventually their passion came to an end. Their fingers were intertwined, and Linhardt could not keep a moan from escaping his throat as lights danced beneath his eyelids. Pleasure. And perfection.
The two men collapsed. For the first time in what felt like hours, they parted, the cool night air embracing them. They buried themselves in Linhardt's bed, nestling together beneath the sheets, and let exhaustion overcome them.
Yet, despite everything, there was an almost bitter taste upon Linhardt's tongue - one so unpleasant it threatened to fight off his drowse.
He did not want this to be the end.
He did not want to go to war in the morning. He did not want to have to tuck away these feelings, and these memories, to make place for battle plans and combat strategies. He wanted to lie here forever, in the arms of his man, breathing in the musky scent that he was somehow so attracted to. Caspar loved him back.
And thus, Linhardt promised to himself that he would keep ahold of Caspar von Bergliez. They may have only had one night to call their own, but Linhardt swore that there would be many to come.