"Aren't you nervous to be fighting my brother?" Hilda asks as she helps Caspar into his chest armor. She gently pulls the leather strap on the right shoulder, weaving it through the buckle. "I sure would be," she adds, catching his eye as she moves on to secure the other shoulder.
"No, of course not," he answers confidently. "I'm pumped! It's gonna be so great! I get to fight Leicester's greatest general." He's grinning ear to ear, and practically shaking with excitement. "And I'm gonna win too."
She gives him a skeptical look before she turns around to retrieve his robe, which is laid out next to the rest of his armor. It's tattered and torn, faded in some spots and stained with blood and dirt in others. It tells the story of war and victory, of travel and adventure, of wrongdoing and justice. He watches as her fingers lightly trace over the fibers before she takes it in her hands. Maroon and teal; the colors of House Bergliez. This would be the last day he would ever wear these colors.
She holds out the garment and Caspar slips his arms through the sleeves. "I like your confidence, but please be careful. My brother is really strong."
He shrugs. "That just means it will be all the more impressive when I win."
The smile he wears is infectious, and he delights in her mirroring it. A small laugh accompanies a shake of her head. Nothing deters his optimism and her support only strengthens it.
She straightens his robe, and then lets her palms rest on his chest. She looks into his eyes as she beams, "Well in that case, I can't wait to witness your gallant victory."
Caspar chuckles as he wraps his arms around her waist, and presses his forehead against hers. "Just you wait," he sighs. "You're gonna be smitten all over again."
The crowd of spectators cheer and roar from the sidelines when Holst steps onto the field. Few cheer and only Hilda roars when Caspar enters from the opposing side, but her passionate chanting is enough for him. She's on her feet in the sidelines, fist pumping in the air, screaming "Whoo-hoo's" and "You got this!" Her father stands next to her, bearing a disapproving expression for her uninhibited favoritism. After he clears his throat, she shouts a quick, "Oh, Holst, good luck," with a roll of her eyes and much less enthusiasm.
It was only supposed to be a private duel but word had spread that some "new guy" had challenged Holst, and so, the majority of the Knights of Goneril, and what seems like half the castle staff, have ascended to the training barracks to bare witness to his inevitable defeat.
Rays of midday light beam down on the combatants, and Caspar can already feel the heat and weight of his armor. It's a discomfort that has its own associations with the thrill and fatigue of battles in fields far from here. The ruckus of the crowd is almost overbearing, but it's starkly different than the cacophony and chaos of life and death battles during the war. It reminds him of the camaraderie of tournaments in his school days, as well as training sessions with peers and mentors. Back when he dreamed of fighting for justice, and before he questioned if what he fought for was indeed just.
Even though he stands before Holst with something to prove, fighting for sport was always the duels he enjoyed the most. There's an excitement coursing through his bones and swelling in his chest that he hasn't felt in years. One that he has yearned to remember in fist fights and scrambles from Fodlan to Dagda.
He clenches the handle of his gauntlets. Finally, there was an opponent that could give him the fight he's craved. And it just so happens to be someone who needs to learn to not underestimate him.
Caspar sinks down to a fighting stance, raising his hands up, ready to begin. The practice gauntlets he's borrowing weigh less than his own and the tips have been rounded out for safety. He tests them, quickly adapting to the new weight and length.
Across from him, Holst stands confidently. He is taller than Caspar and in one hand wields a dulled iron axe of similar scale to Freikugel. He shifts the weight of it to point at Caspar.
"I won't rescind my invitation if you fail to best me, but I do hope you prove that you are worthy to fight under the Goneril banner," warns Holst. He glances to the stands momentarily. "However if you want me to acquiesce to the other manner, then convince me with victory that I can intrust you with something so precious."
Caspar cracks his neck and sneers, "Oh, I'm gonna beat into you just how worthy I am. I hope you can still look your men in the eye after I'm finished with you."
Holst regards him with dubiety. "Cocky, aren't you."
At the bellow of a bugle the fight begins. Caspar's war cry rips the air as he surges toward the general, his gauntlets bared like claws.
Holst waits and watches. His eyes are calculating and calm, a prudence that has surely secured his many victories in battle. He scrutinizes with such a piercing gaze that any other man would have lost his nerve, but not Caspar.
The general plants his feet into the dirt when the younger man leaps at him. Caspar feigns with his right hand before spurring his left fist towards Holst's face. The fake out doesn't trick him, and he quickly raises his axe to parry the attack. An ear-piercing screech vibrates in the air when the glove of the gauntlets scratches against the metal blade. Caspar quickly slashes with his other hand, but Holst dodges.
They circle around a quarter-turn before Caspar strikes again, clawing with his left. Holst avoids it. Another strike, another miss. Growing frustrated, he pursues, releasing consecutive strikes, slashes, and jabs. Holst dodges most of them, but a few connect.
Caspar's relentless onslaught drives his opponent back, but he's hitting more air than duke. He backs off, recognizing that this isn't working. He's learned the necessity to conserve his energy. And that annoying look in Holst's eyes tells him that he's playing right into the enemy's hand.
They circle more, and he watches Holst, assessing his movements, waiting for the perfect time to strike.
Suddenly Holst rushes towards him, axe splitting the air and flying straight towards Caspar's head. He squats down just in time. The blade zips past the edge of his hair. A perfect opening to the solar plexus seems in front of him, but, no, that's too easy. Holst's foot is light on the ground, ready to kick or deflect if he attempts anything.
Instead, Caspar bounds off his heels, pivoting around the man. He can barely cross his arms in time to stop a sweeping back kick. Holst rides the momentum, using it to change the direction of his weapon, and this time Caspar can't deflect. The axe crashes into his side, and knocks the wind from his chest.
But there, he sees it! An opening! Caspar recovers quickly and surges.
Or so he thought.
The man moves like lightning and blocks using the shaft of his weapon, catching the twin blades of the gauntlet between it. Holst pushes and twists, and Caspar can't disentangle himself fast enough before he's colliding with the ground.
The duke brandishes the axe up high and swings it down like a hammer, grazing the edge of Caspar's shoulder as he scrambles to roll away from the blow. Holst doesn't relent, however, and the axe slices through the air just as Caspar rises to his feet.
Pang! The axe smashes into his chest, and his armor warps under the impact. Caspar tastes blood and bile. An armored boot kicks him in the temple and he can feel the metal shearing his skin. It smarts like hell, and his vision blurs momentarily. As he skids onto his back, a trickle of blood drips down his eyelid.
"I believe my sister needs to reassess her opinion of you," scolds Holst, looking down on him with an expression so similar to the kind Hilda gives him when he is being stupid.
Okay, maybe he still is being a bit hotheaded.
Caspar snaps to his feet before the other man can strike again. He dodges the next swing of the axe, and elbows Holst hard in the back. Holst pivots around, and Caspar can't dodge the retaliation in time. The blade smashes into his stomach. He grunts and takes the impact, digging his heels into the dirt.
But sometimes being reckless has its perks.
Now he's right next to Holst and the older man doesn't realize he left Caspar an opening. One hand strikes the shaft of the axe down so it's no longer a threat and the other strikes up, smashing the blunt base of his gauntlet into Holst's chin. The blades may be dulled, but they still snag across the man's face. Caspar doesn't let up his assault, and back hands Holst powerfully in the stomach. Holst stumbles back and Caspar takes advantage of the man's momentary loss of balance. He rushes him, jumping high in the air, and smashes both clawed hands down, raking down Holst's chest and stomach.
Everything hurts; Caspar's head is throbbing, and muscles are already aching. He can't seem to inhale deep enough to fill his lungs. There's adrenaline pumping through his veins like he's not felt in years. And he is relishing in it.
Holst regains his footing in an instant and lunges toward Caspar. The younger man is light on his feet, and bounding out of the way as the general pursues. He sweeps horizontal, but Caspar leaps backwards before the blade can make contact. Again and again he strikes, and again and again Caspar parries or dodges.
Agile as Caspar is, Holst's attacks are relentless, and it's all he can do to weave through the onslaught, unable to find an opening to go on the attack himself. Right, dodge, left, duck, above, jump backwards. Before he can think of a maneuver, Holst's fist collides with his side. It doesn't hurt through his armor, but it is a distraction. And finally that axe hits him hard in the arm with such force he feels his fingers go numb. It creates the perfect opportunity to bull rush Caspar, and he just barely catches the axe with his gauntlets before he's sent stumbling back. Holst revolves around like a tornado, whipping his axe around with him, creating a dangerous barrier.
He lunges out of the way just as the axe hits the ground, tossing dirt into the air. Caspar hits the ground too, and as he falls he spots pink eyes staring back at him.
'So think carefully, Caspar,' Catherine's voice from so long ago rings in his mind. 'To what will you devote your sword—and your heart?'
Caspar roars, invigorated, and leaps to his feet. He will not lose. Here and now, using his fists he will persuade Holst that he is devoted to her.
Holst is readying his next strike when Caspar spurs back at him, eyes gleaming defiantly. He slides past him. Dirt kicks up as he pivots, revolving all the way back around. His iron boot hooks into the back of Holst's knee. Holst buckles, and somewhere out there is a very proud Lindhardt.
Now's his opportunity. Now he's at his level. He lets loose a barrage of hooks and jabs that Holst scrambles to block, but one hits its target, and crumbling, Holst's guard is dropped, and another blow to his stomach has him coughing blood. Caspar slashes again and hooks his gauntlets around the axe that rises feebly to stop him. It's ripped from Holst's grip, and windmills across the field.
Before his opponent can register his defenseless predicament, Caspar leaps, revolving round, and the two pairs of blades hit in quick succession. Holst falls to the ground, and Caspar uses the momentum of the spin to drop down with him. He straddles him, one arm holding him stationary, one gauntlet poised at his throat.
Caspar's breath is ragged as he spits, "What's that you were saying? Hilda's got real great taste?"
The air is tense and he can feel the staggered rise and fall of Holst's breathing under his hand. The man's pink eyes glare up in a mix of bewilderment, annoyance and respect.
"I concede," gasps Holst from his pinned position. Caspar's fury softens, replaced by escalating pride. He clambers off his opponent, and removing his gauntlets, offers a hand down to help Holst up. The duke accepts and Caspar pulls him to his feet.
"Good fight," Caspar commends before letting go of his hand. They are both shallow of breath and the pain and fatigue is starting to catch up to them, but there's an impressed smirk pulling at Holst's lips.
"You greatly defied my expectations. Work hard and you might be promoted in a not-too-distant future." He braces himself on his knees. "And as I promised, I give you my blessing. I would be honored to call you my brother."
Caspar grins with bliss and gratification. "All right! I like the sound of that!"
He offers Holst a shoulder and together they make their way out of the arena. Hilda runs up to them and clings to Caspar's other side, gushing over his performance. He laughs, knowing that this victory was all for her.
After the match, Hilda insists on checking Caspar's wounds while he insists on recounting his exploits for the third —no, fourth time—that night.
"And then —pow! Took out his knees like Lindhardt taught me!" he proudly explains, throwing an empathizing punch. He glances expectedly to her before returning to unbuckling his pauldrons.
"It was pretty amazing!" Hilda agrees as she pulls out a dress from her travel bag and tosses it aside before resuming the hunt for medical supplies. They had been in Goneril castle for a little over a week, and the contents had shifted into an even more chaotic state than during their travels. He assumes she'll unpack it. Eventually. Or she'll probably get Caspar to do it.
Within moments her arms are full of poutrices, bandages, a water-filled basin, and several other notions. She sits down on the velvet chaise in front of the bed, and places the items to her side. Caspar quickly removes his last armored boot before plopping down besides her.
He gets in so many brawls and scuffs that wound care was practically a nightly ritual. They quickly fall into familiar roles.
"I'm glad you wore your armor. Otherwise, you might be in worse shape," she sighs as she tucks her fingers under his chin and gently tilts his head, inspecting the damage.
Luckily, Caspar hasn't sustained any serious injuries. He is, however, littered with bruises and friction burns. His face has several shallow cuts and a particularly deep slash above his left eyebrow. The cheek underneath is red and swollen. He's hiding that he's sore all over, and he's sure if he checked, there would be several giant welts on his chest and back.
"Nah, it's not that bad! And you always do a good job fixing me up." Both his tone and smile are earnest as usual.
She responds with an incredulous expression, but decides to take the compliment. "Maybe so, but I couldn't have done anything if you had broken something. Seriously, I don't understand why you bothered with this fight in the first place." There's exasperation in her voice.
Caspar smirks back at her and practically gloats, "It was worth it."
It all worked out in the end.
All of it.
She soaks a cloth in the basin, and rings it out. Her touch is gentle as she cleanses the cuts, and wipes the remaining dried blood and dirt from the corners of his hairline and nose. She then preps an herbal salve in her hands. He tenses slightly at the sting when she massages it into the cut above his eyebrow. She works it onto his other scratches.
Hilda is always oddly focused and serious when it comes to his injuries, and Caspar savors being someone worth so much of her effort.
He kisses a 'thank you' on her wrist, and although she doesn't stop, she smiles playfully and pink eyes shine lovingly back at him.
Once she finishes applying the poutrice, she wipes her hands on the cloth. "Time to be brave. This one needs stitches," she half-teases as she begins looping thread through a needle.
"I'm always brave," he scoffs. He snakes his arms around the small of her back, and convinces himself it's definitely to make it easier for Hilda, and not because of something silly like pain. She finishes tying the knot, and he closes his eyes when she tilts his head back.
He can hear the coy smile on her lips. "True. And you did look very heroic today. I couldn't keep my eyes off you." He smirks and hums approvingly.
It hurts when the needle punctures his skin, and his grip tightens on her. Luckily Hilda's always loved jabbering and he's grateful for any distracting small talk.
"The whole thing was pretty entertaining. I don't think I've ever seen my brother look so humiliated." She laughs lightly. "It's pretty bizarre to be around him again. I hope he keeps up this 'missing me' attitude. But I'm sure he's going to start calling me lazy and careless again before long."
"I'll set him straight if he does," he grunts out, eyes squeezing tighter when the needle sinks through his skin again.
She giggles, "Thanks, Caspar."
Hilda cuts off the needle with a small knife, and ties a knot. "All over," she proclaims before pecking him on the cheek.
Caspar's eyes flash open and he offers an appreciative grin. He runs his fingers tentatively over the stitches as she sets the medicine aside.
Her eyes glance upon a wooden chest in the corner of the room. Inside it is a brand new suit of armor bearing the Goneril crest. Tomorrow Caspar will wear it for his knighting ceremony.
So much for carefree adventures.
She snuggles closer to him, and rests her head on his shoulder. "Are you happy to be a knight for my family?"
He finishes chugging down a potion before he shifts and buries his face in the crook of her neck. "Yeah, of course. I think that's doing pretty well for a second son." The rise and fall of her breathing comforts him. "But if I'm honest, I feel like it's just a title for a promise I made to myself a long time ago."
Her brows knit with curiosity. "Promise?"
He takes her cheeks in his hands and cyan eyes lock affectionately on rose-colored irises. "I made a promise to myself I'd always protect you. That I'd dedicate my sword and my heart to you."
A wavering smile forms on her lips, and heavy lashes flutter down. Her words carry her doubts. "I can't help feeling you could be dedicating your life to a cause, or someone with actual ambition. If you dedicate it to me, I'll end up disappointing you."
"No way. You'll never disappoint me, Hilda." His voice is more serious than his usual easygoing manner, and her eyes dart back up at the change. "Look, you want to live your life how you want, and I want to be there to make it happen. You don't need to be changing the world. We've already helped do that. You can just be you. I like you just as you are."
She places a hand atop his, and sighs, "Always so many compliments. I guess if you're content to live your life chained to my family, that's your decision. But just know, I'm going to ask many favors from my knight." She gives him a mischievous smirk.
He grins. Her knight.
"I'm fine with both of those."
Hilda leans forward and kisses him on the cheek before purring, "Can you do one now?"
Slightly bemused, he answers hesitantly. "A favor? Of course, anytime."
Her smile is devious. "I need some help carrying 'luggage'."
It takes half a second, but the invitation of the familiar roleplay is not lost on him.
"Oh, that's not a problem at all." Caspar returns her teasing tone. He swiftly gathers her into his arms and lifts her up as he stands. All soreness is forgotten in an instant. Hilda lets out a surprised laugh and latches to his shoulders, nestling her cheek against his collarbone.
She plants a playful kiss on his neck that sends a shudder down his spine and incites haste in his step. Once he places her down on the bed, Caspar eagerly climbs up beside her, and pulls her to him.
Lips meet and long hair cascades around him like a veil. She giggles as she pulls away the strands that tangle in their mouths and then tosses her tresses back over her shoulder.
Hilda trails soft intoxicating kisses on his lips, down his chin, and along his jawbone while her hands weaves through his hair.
"You looked so valiant and sexy when you kicked my brother's ass," she commends, hot breath tickling his skin.
He smirks. "I was pretty impressive, wasn't I?"
She hums agreement and continues to tantalizingly trace his jawbone with her lips until she reaches the edge of his ear. She slowly licks a circle down his jugular and presses a wet bruising love bite into the base of his collarbone, causing Caspar to squeeze his eyes close and involuntarily groan.
" So impressive. I was completely smitten." Her mouth meanders back to his lips, and she kisses Caspar in that languid Hilda way that makes the pace of time slow and makes his heart stop beating.
Leisurely. Savoring. Downright tortuous.
It's a kiss that reminds Caspar that he loves her more than any thrill he could ever get from a fight. A kiss that reminds him how grateful he is that the girl who's free like no one else he's ever known, chose him. A kiss that fortified him during war and tethered him during boundless adventure.
A kiss that reminds him that his fight with Holst was for her ; for them.
His fingers wander to the nape of her neck and small of her back, and curl through her hair. He returns her tender kiss in kind and he drinks in her hypnotic scent of gardenia and flowers he probably couldn't name.
She sighs contently into his mouth, muttering, "My darling, Caspar. My Champion."
When she pulls away he reflexively follows, but she keeps her lips ghosting above his. His eyes snap open. The hammering rise and fall of his chest betrays his struggle to contain his mounting fervor.
"About the favor," she purrs in his ear. Her hand slinks low and taunts his inner thigh. Caspar forgets how to breathe for a moment.
A labored huff of a laugh spills from his lips. "Your 'champion' is happy to help. Just let me know what you need."
She bites down on his earlobe. Caspar inhales sharply and tightens his grip on her. Her hand wanders dangerously close to where he so desperately wants it, and her teeth tug more belligerently than gentle.
Caspar has never had much patience and all his restraint crumbles at lightning speed. And restraint, he's learned, is anything but what Hilda wants. Impetuously, he surges to claim her mouth with a kiss, primal passion igniting as his lips mash against hers. It's ardent and rough. And his whole heart is poured out in fervent hunger.
He's never been good with words. All he has ever had were actions. And he prays that his kiss can speak what he'll never say well enough.
He pulls her impossibly close, so close that he can feel the heat radiating off her skin, and engross himself in the suffocating scent of her floral perfume.
Close, so she knows that he wants her near always.
He clambers on top of her, hastily tugging off his robe while breaking the kiss as little as possible. He rolls her under him, and wraps his arms under her shoulders. Her legs hook around his hips, and he rocks her into the pillows. She cries softly, and grinds back against him enthusiastically, forming a greedy rhythm. Long nails rake down his skull and down his back.
Caspar whispers her praises in the agonizing recesses between searing hungry kisses and her laughter vibrates on his teeth.
She's amazing; she's beautiful; no one else is like her; he's so damn lucky.
Phrases he's confessed and sealed with love making countless times; in the dark of the monastery's dorms, in the moonlight of campsites and caves, and under the low glow of candles in inns across the continent.
She yanks his shirt up his chest, and he briefly disentangles his arms and lips from her in order to jerk it over his head, discarding it into some corner of the room. He looks down at her laid out under him, hair tossed around her like a halo, her cheeks, neck, and chest flush from her arousal, rose eyes half-lidded and heady.
"No wonder you won," she teases. "So much muscle."
She reaches up and her palms glide over chiseled abs and his countless scars. Today's battle wounds added to the tapestry of war and struggle, dark and purple against his fair skin. She traces the Wo Dao slice across his collarbone she sewed up in Dagda and the faint bolganone burn across his lower abdomen from the infiltration of Fort Merceus. Her hands slide lower still and run over his still clothed hips. Caspar's breath hitches when her fingers feather his groin just before hooking around the top of his pants.
She smirks and tugs him forward, back on top of her. He catches himself on the pillows, and before he can recover her lips are on his neck, adding another bruise to his collection.
"Tell me what you want," he rasps in her ear as one hand fumbles to untie the laces at her waist. He returns the presents she left on his neck, pushing aside the fabric of her turtleneck and sucking large love bites just where they would be hidden.
"Oh, I think you know."
He gravitates his attention down her collarbone and chest, sucking hard when he reaches the exposed top of her right breast. The elated sound she makes confirms her approval.
"Hmm..can't figure it out if you don't tell me." He tugs the last string from the corset, and opens it around her waist, pressing his mouth to the revealed skin. His hands find her breasts and knead them slowly, thumbs tucking under the edges of her bralette.
Hilda squirms under him as he scatters kisses around her navel. "The man who beat Leicester's greatest general can definitely figure out what a fair maiden needs."
He chuckles. "Don't see how those are related, but fine, I'll try guessing." His voice turns to a defiant growl.
Ungraciously, Caspar rucks up her bra, and takes her exposed nipple in his mouth. She arches up and groans. Her nails dig into his skin and she forces him closer, holding him in place, as he trades long suctions with flicks of his tongue in a spontaneous pattern.
He lifts her up and his hands slip around her back, and undo the buttons on her nape and spine. With one final drag of his tongue, he lets her go just long enough to slip the garment off one shoulder. She fumbles to release her other arm, but he pushes her back into the sheets, pinning her down at the wrists and the garment is caught at her elbow. Without sparing a moment, he mercilessly reciprocates his attention to the other breast.
"No?" he breathes as he liberates the captive nipple. Hilda's eyes strain open and catch his gaze, gleaming playfully.
Caspar slinks back further on his knees, rubbing himself against her in the process. He nips under her navel and around her hips and continues the descent down her thigh at a quick pace. His hands follow his mouth, rubbing hot and rough on her exposed skin.
He can hear her pounding heart and feel her vibrating shivers. Her legs fall open expectantly and she breathes deeply when his lips first contact her inner thigh. Caspar's hands drag down her leg and hook in her stocking. He tugs it off gently—as he's learned to—and kisses the inner corner of her knee.
"Come on," he laughs. "A knight needs his order from his liege." She shakes her head and joins his laughter.
He torments her by proceeding to kiss circles on her other thigh, pulling the remaining stocking only halfway. His fingers massage the toned muscles, working their way to the center. When he finally presses his strong fingers around her entrance, she twitches.
Encouraged, he moves one hand up to her breast and squeezes hard. While the other stays busy with rough strokes down her seam again and again and again. She gasps repetitively and he can feel her becoming wet.
Firm fingers find and press her sensitive spot, and he delights in the moan she unleashes.
"Cas-," Hilda tries, but her voice hitches so lasciviously he smirks against her thigh. Her hips jerk violently against his fingers and she reflexively grips the blanket. She whimpers his name unsuccessfully a few more times as he continues to work her up.
"Your order is—is to make your name the only thing I remember!"
He laughs loudly as he pushes the fabric aside and plunges two fingers inside her. She bucks hard into his hand, and begins a rhythm with his fingers. Hilda huffs, unraveling quickly under him, and scrambles to grab him, singing gibberish until it devolves into amorous stutters.
Beckoned by her flailing, Caspar climbs back up her, and places his throbbing erection over her hip, rubbing himself against her in tempo with his hand. She reaches out and clutches him. He zealously takes her mouth and Hilda greedily returns the kiss, clumsily weaving lips, tongue and spit together. He presses harder and faster, and anchors her swiveling hips and shifting knees with his free hand.
She gasps into his next kiss and raises her hips up, toes curling in her stockings. He angles his fingers sharper and digs deeper, keeping up the same pressure in those steady circles on the outside. She whimpers into the nook of his neck, twisting and riding his hand in her pleasure.
"Come on, Hilda." he breathes. "Let me know if I'm fulfilling your orders." She answers with a startled moan. He speeds up and increases the pressure. He strokes and curls his fingers, and she gasps. Again, and she cries. Again, and she wails.
"I don't know," she grits at last. "I still remember—." She bites into his neck to hold back a scream.
Hilda shudders and clamps down on his hand when the euphoria peaks, rapturous explosion rippling through her body.
Her moan punctures the air with his name.
She collapses in a huff of weary impassioned sighs, and releases her death grip on him, moving her hands to gently hold his neck. She laughs lightly and happily kisses him slow and sensually.
He pulls his hand out of her and wipes it unceremoniously on the bed, before bracing himself with it.
Hilda praises, "You're so good with your hands. Punching people…helping a girl out."
She walks her fingers down his abs at a deviously slow pace and her kisses become more daring. She sucks in his lower lip and tugs it devilishly with her teeth.
"You've been such a good boy putting up with my brother and everything. You deserve a reward, don't you think?"
Hilda's fingers hook around the top of his pants and sneak in between the fabric and his body, crawling up and down his muscular thigh. She mutters compliments of his bravery and strength against his neck and his pulse quickens.
Caspar's about at his breaking point, and is one moment away from forcing her hand where he desperately needs it. The anticipation is utterly unbearable. The Goddess only knows how he lasted long enough to get her off first. Something in the back of his mind tells him it's because he worships her and dedicated his life to her, but his brain is long past the point of being able to think, and now he's only thinking with one much lower organ.
She hums playfully between kisses and nips along his neck, emphasizing each step of her fingers, purposely testing his restraint, waiting for the fly to fall into the spiderweb.
Caspar von Bergliez hates losing. And this is a game he loses every single time.
He snatches her wrist and presses it against him. Her fingers snap flat against his thigh, ghosting his erection. Chagrined, he pleads, "Hilda."
She lets her head fall back into the pillows and stares up at him with her guileful rose quartz eyes. Her fingers twitch under his grasp, and one reaches his cock, brushing lightly up and down. His breath catches and his grip loosens. She takes advantage of her increased mobility and wraps her hand around him, sliding her thumb over the slit. He's practically frozen under her touch, and she grins with satisfaction.
Hilda shifts, invitingly spreading apart her legs. She cocks her head, beckoning, and tugs knowingly just a little too hard on his dry dick. He hisses as both hands quickly reach for his waistband. She releases him, and Caspar eagerly climbs out of his trousers.
"If this is my reward, I'll beat your brother to a pulp everyday," he growls wolfishly.
He wastes no time to hastily pull down her skirt and undergarments. She arcs her hips, helping him shimmy them over her bottom and down her legs. He's all ready impatiently climbing back over her before she can free either leg completely. She quickly gives up kicking it off as he grinds high on her pelvis. His lips lock around hers and tongue slips into her mouth, kissing her with unrestrained wild abandonment, all caution to be gentle or gracious forgotten.
Caspar guides his hard length to her entrance, and rubs himself up and down her wet exterior. He shudders, breaking their kiss with a grin of unashamed anticipation, and mutters praises under his breath. She wraps her arms around his neck and hooks her legs around his hips, encouraging. Eyes lock and he sinks into her part way, constricted by how tight she is, and it feels amazing. She arches and gasps under him. He kisses her cheek affectionately while he pulls out slightly and then slowly pushes in further. Her breathing hiccups and he mutters soothingly before kissing her tenderly again.
When he's hilt in, he blurts out a relieved yelp. Hilda, too, cries out her own sound, much quieter. She pulls him close and kisses him deeply.
He retracts himself slightly and then thrusts fully back in. It's slow at first but then gains a steady tempo. Each time almost out to the tip, and then sliding back hard, rocking her into the pillows. She wraps her arms tighter around him, and struggles to keep his pace.
Caspar isn't especially tall but she feels so small intertwined with him like this, and he feels empowered.
Her nails sting his bruises, and he can feel the fatigue and soreness of the fight from earlier, but he ignores it all. That pain won't stop him from the pursuit of the sheer ecstasy of conjoining with her. The fight—this— it was all testaments of his love.
Caspar's hands move to grasp her bottom and squeeze aggressively, angling her up simultaneously. She responds by climbing her legs higher on his back, right under his shoulder blades. The new angle allows him to plunge deeper and grind against her pleasure spot. She squeaks an amorous utterance and clenches impossibly tighter around him.
Hilda's falling apart around him, panting so hard she can no longer maintain their kissing. His lips land on the corner of her mouth, and tug on her bottom lip. "You can be rougher, you know," she breathes. "I'm tougher than I look."
"I thought you were a 'delicate flower.'"
She offers a crooked grin. "When it's convenient."
He chuckles and obliges, thrusting with more force. Deeper. Closer. Tighter. Hilda practically sobs and Caspar joins the chorus of enraptured groans, hisses, and cries. He was always a rather loud love maker.
The sheets tangle under her and pink hair scrunches into a mess. They push and pull each other closer and closer until they are unified in heat and sweat and passion.
The drum beats of their hearts pound in his ears. He can feel he's close, and the way she's clutching him and moaning confirms she is too.
Finally, she shrieks and clutches tighter. Her climax crescendoing violently through his body.
Caspar wants her to know the sincerity of his earlier promise of devotion, but it's too complicated for right now so he makes do with a ragged, "I really really love you."
Her grip loosens slightly, and her head tilts back with an enamored grin.
Her fingers tug at his hair. His mouth snaps to reach her. He pumps faster and harder and finally—
Caspar shudders and pulls out with an unbridled moan. He attempts to catch his spill as he comes hard, fast, and hot on her navel. He lurches into a crouch as he rides the electrifying compulsions out.
After a moment to recover, he exhales a breathless, "Oh, man," and he rests his head on her chest, hand still clenched around himself.
Hilda's heartbeat is a metronome under his ear and her chest rises and falls in a different quick rhythm. She slips her legs off his shoulders and sinks into the bed, absent-mindedly running her hands through his hair, as her euphoria quickly diminishes.
"I love you too." Her voice is soft but affectionate.
He turns and grins wholeheartedly at her.
"Now I'm exhausted," she whines.
"All ready?" he huffs. "I could do this all night."
"It was amazing, but no thank you. Besides, we actually have a soft bed to sleep in instead of the cold ground."
He shifts, kisses her collarbone, and rises out of the bed, grabbing his pants with his unsullied hand. "We stayed at Raphael's inn barely a week ago," he comments, missing her point, as he walks away to clean himself.
When he returns Hilda is already tucked in the covers. He crawls into the bed beside her, amused to realize she is wearing his robe.
"What?" she says as she snuggles up close, resting her head on his shoulder. "All my clothes were too much effort to put back on, and it was still on the bed."
Caspar softly chuckles and wraps his arms around her, nuzzling closer, inhaling her sweet perfume. "Good night, Hilda," he sighs, contently.
"Yup, I'm feeling very smitten," Hilda purrs as she weaves the leather strap through the last buckle on Caspar's new armor. Once finished she looks at their reflection in the mirror and smiles.
Caspar follows her gaze and looks at himself properly for the first time. The armor is white with gold patterns on the pauldrons and an elaborate engraving of the crest of Goneril adorns the chest plate. "I do look pretty tough in this, don't I?"
She links her arm in his. "Ready to go, Sir Knight?"
He smirks at the title and gives her a confident, "Raring to go!" as a response.
They begin to walk to the door, arms locked together. "Hopefully my brother can still walk to knight you properly."
"Come on, I didn't rough him up that much," he laughs. "I just beat some sense into him."
She lifts an eyebrow. "And when are you going to tell me what exactly was this 'sense'?"
Caspar stops and looks conflicted a moment. Hilda comes to a halt as well, completely puzzled. He fumbles slightly under her skeptical gaze.
At last he speaks. Truthful as always.
"That I'd be a good husband to you." Determination colors his voice.
Pink eyes light up instantly and her mouth gapes open.
The reaction causes Caspar's confidence to falter a bit. A flush creeps on his cheeks and a hint of uncertainty creeps into his voice. "I asked for his blessing — that is — to propose to you — and he, uh, didn't really wanna give it, cause I don't really have an inheritance or something, so we decided to settle it fighting, and I've been trying to think of some way to ask you soon, but I'm not really good at romance stuff, and — and now I'm getting really flustered and should just shut up." He's completely red now and his eyes keep darting away, but he looks her bravely in the eye for his next words. "So, I want to marry you. Do you..uh..want to get married?"
Hilda smiles like a fool. She leaps at him, wrapping her arms tight around his waist. "Finally," she sighs, breath tickling his ear. "Of course I do. I've been waiting for you to ask, Caspar."
"Oh no...how long have you been wait-"
She yanks him down and soft lips press against his before he can finish speaking. His mind jolts, his eyes squeeze shut, and in an instant he is urgently nudging her lips open to deepen the kiss, his happiness and excitement pouring out and matching her own.
She pulls away after a tender moment, blush tinting her cheeks. "I made something for us," she whispers. She pecks him quickly on the cheek and leaps away. Before long she's rummaging through her traveling bag, and Caspar watches her slightly frantic, unusually motivated search with confusion and bemused anticipation. Finally she retrieves a small velvet bag and scurries back over to him.
"It was hard work making these, just so you know." Her voice demands his acknowledgement but then shifts to be more thoughtful. "Though a lot easier to hide them from you than I thought it would be." She reaches into the bag and pulls out something in a box. Catching his eye, she slowly turns over her hand and opens her palm, revealing two matching rings. They are both silver with ornate floral designs etched on them. The thicker ring is embedded with a crown of small pink gemstones, while the thinner ring is similar but with the addition of a large heart shaped gemstone in the center.
Flabbergasted, Caspar chokes out, "You made us rings?"
She shrugs. "Yeah, a whole two years ago."
"Two years ago! Was I really so oblivious for that long?" He reels back in shock, and looks at her sheepishly. She gives him that look of hers in confirmation.
Leaning back in, he takes a closer look at the rings. "Wow, these look pretty amazing, Hilda. They're better than anything I would have picked out."
"I figured you'd have trouble with that. But this way, it's something I'll actually like."
"I guess that's true…"
She looks at him expectantly, holding out the rings. He stares at her a moment, and receives a small "ahem" before catching on. He picks up the ring with the large gem. Hilda daintily extends her hand out, and looks up at him under heavy lashes, a giddy smile on her face.
He gingerly accepts her hand with one of his own. Then he slowly and gently slides the ring on her figure.
She spreads out her digits, displaying it, and looks up to see his affectionate grin. A light blush still paints his cheeks.
"Now it's your turn." There's an exhilarated giggle ringing in her voice.
He hesitates before tugging on the glove of his right hand.
She gives him that look again. "The other hand, Caspar." Bashfully, he switches and removes the other glove. He offers his hand to her.
Hilda expertly slips the ring over his finger. It feels a little awkward against his skin, but euphoria swells up within him. She admires the ring on his hand for a moment, and rubs her thumb sweetly over his knuckles. Her gaze rises back toward his grinning visage and suddenly she laughs, loud and gleefully. Caspar's laughter joins hers, ringing unbridled and boisterous.
"I love you, Caspar," she whispers when they settle down, resting her forehead on his chest and embracing him. He pulls her even tighter against him.
Time and age have taught Caspar how cherished moments like these can be so fleeting. So he attempts to drink it all in and is determined to engrave it all into memory: The scent of her floral perfume, the foreign sensation the ring, her soft skin and tangled tresses under his hands, this utter happiness.
"I want to stay by your side forever," he says back. "I'm always gonna protect you and do my best to make you happy."
"I know you will."
His left fingers find her ringed hand and intertwine them. He looks down into doting pink eyes and a loving smile.
This devotion was promised with trepid kisses wrapped in twisted sheets in the Garreg Mach dorms. Renewed when they clutched each other, wounded and crying, as the sky was ablaze with exploding rays of light. And witnessed by the world with shouts of his affection and her reciprocated feelings ringing across victory banners in a war torn field.
This was where his sword and his heart belonged.
He draws his face close to her, and before kissing her breathes, "Hilda, I'll love you forever."