#goldscheme

he isn't immune to the holiday; and this isn't garreg mach. pretending with coquettish glances and pursed half-smiles. it's her birthday, and the box smells of fresh flowers, all her favorite kinds laden in a bouquet strewn around her room in vases of fine glass. he knows her, his hilda. somehow he had the fortune he didn't know how to accept to be known by /her/. somewhere along the way he's looping what he can guarantee is the most unique and elegant necklace in fodlan around her neck the sweet smell of rose hair cloying his senses; daringly sweet. a rose with thorns; a rose tender a rose above all others; faithful. he wonders what he'd ever do without her, in moments where those sherry eyes flit to his and a coy but accepting smile graces her face, no more hiding tenderness, no more hiding (love) . he finishes the clasp; he will never not look at her; whispering her birthday with an unheard tenderness; 'hilda -- ' a kiss. 'happy birthday.' and another; soft; slow -- raw. — sent by @goldscheme​​  

       it’s funny, hilda thinks, how they still behave as if juveniles despite being well into adulthood. marks of their youth ( of something she had named a mere attraction ) follow them even now, knowing grins and flirtations simply done in good fun. she doesn’t mind it — never has, never will, for it is this playfulness that makes their relationship theirs and she knows underneath all the teasing and faux fleeing, he is hers just as she is his. and perhaps war has burned modesty within the spoiled daughter of goneril, because she’s grown satisfied with simply his presence ( of the fact they both still live and breathe together, side by side just as she had always dreamed ). 

    yet, even despite her assurance, of how she claimed to not really need anything, silly, he lavishes her with gifts of love regardless. their shared room adorned with her favorite flora and a single necklace upon her neck seems so simple for a woman used to obtaining anything and everything, but still her heart swells as laughter bubbles past lips curved in absolute adoration. it’s the little things that hilda has come to appreciate. things so insignificant and seemingly unfit for her — thoughtfulness is always what wins her over in the end. 

    rough fingertips betraying their dainty appearance trail to seek his own worn hands, a sense of comfort washing over her when they’re finally found ( because they see one another, hold each other with a familiarity and trust she would never offer another ). her senses are filled with all that is him: the scent of the sun. rose sings alongside the aroma, intertwining together; a symbol of their closeness, of lasting effects upon each other, of time spent together allowing their bodies to carry each other ( in action, in mind, in heart ). 

    and when he kisses her, congratulates her, his name leaves her in a breathless giggle. claude. she says it so softly and sweet, against his lips as she cradles his visage. oh, how silly she thinks it is ! to be so taken with someone, to want to devote her entire being to a single man. but she loves him, goodness, does she love him. she isn’t sure when she fell so hard, isn’t sure when she decided he was the one, but to trade him for anyone else ? she would never. 

A light hum, soft and considering, “How do you think we should approach this?” 

Send me a 🐤 for a Tweet my muse would make about yours. | accepting.

@goldscheme​ said: 🐤 talk abt me punz, ur charming house leader cough

       she hums in appreciation as he oh, so kindly tends to her locks, feet crossing at the ankles, laughter soft in response to his words. ❝ it was a gift, ❞ she says, and from whom she doesn’t bother to say. perhaps it was from an admirer, from a friend they share, or perhaps it was from the brother that loves her despite her idle personality. ‘ it’s always good to try new things, so i thought, hey ! why not ? ’ 

         “to forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time.”

I’M MORE CONCERNED ABOUT YOUR FACE TEACH!

‘you’re hurting my widdle feelings’