Soft, and gorgeous, and luscious. Just large enough to bury her face in, just small enough to hold comfortably on the palm of her hands. Hilda spends every day wondering how she could be so blessed to have these lovely breasts to lay against.
Now if only Marianne could agree.
“I’m just saying that you have a great body,” Hilda’s praise would probably make more sense if she wasn’t pretending that Marianne’s ears come out of her boobs. Luckily for her, she’s more than content to continue laying the most perfect pair of breasts in all of Fodland, soft and supple under her cheeks. Hilda rubs her chin along the middle, feeling wonderfully at peace.
Marianne staring at her makes her feel a little less peaceful.
“Hilda,” always a soft murmur, with this one. Hilda sighs, tipping her face forward so that her eyes can properly meet Marianne’s tired ones, her hands stroking upward to cup at Marianne’s chin. Her fellow deer averts her eyes, pale face the lightest tinge pink, and Hilda grins.
“Marianne!” Sing-song, fun, like Hilda’s not two seconds from stripping off her shirt. Marianne purses her lips, pretty, effortlessly so. Sometimes, Hilda wonders what her friend did to be so blessed with the most perfect body, face, voice. Surely some ancient family secret that not to be spilled.
Well, it’s Marianne. Always secrets with her. Not that Hilda minds—that is, if Marianne would let Hilda be one of her many little secrecies. So much fun.
“Please don’t say such things.” Her cheeks are certainly pink now, and Hilda coos, pinching her cheek. Beautiful.
“What things?” As if she doesn’t know. Hilda hums, nesting her face back against Marianne’s breasts, one hand coming down to pinch at the fabric of her uniform. Marianne trembles, her eyes sliding to the side, lips part. See? Effortlessly pretty.
“I’m not—I’m not beautiful, Hilda.” Hushed, tired, as though her appearance is a secret to everyone but herself. Her eyes float upward to capture Hilda’s, pulling her in further, drowning. “Not like you are.”
“Oh, what are you talking about!” Laugh. Smile. Hilda scoots further back, hoping that she’s not blushing, how embarrassing. “Marianne,” truthful, close, “Marianne, you are so pretty! I’m jealous.” Almost a lie, that one, though Hilda covers it with a cup of Marianne’s face, “I wish I could look as nice as you do!”
She wants more than just that, though she doubts Marianne would ever be able to tell.
“Oh.” She’s really blushing now, red down to her uniform collar. Hilda could ruin a mattress with how hard she clenches her hands, biting down on a hasty remark. She’s not going to ruin this, not with Marianne. But, well, if Marianne is the one to ask first, it’s not really Hilda’s fault, is it?
Yes, that’s right. It’s Marianne’s fault for being so inexplicably beautiful.
“Marianne,” praising, simple, Hilda’s hands dropping down to cup at Marianne’s breast, watching as her eyes drop to her pink nails, uncertain, “Marianne. Don’t tell me you don’t know how alluring you look!”
“I-I don’t.” Marianne’s eyes flick back up to Hilda, only to avert just as quickly. Shame, as much as Hilda enjoys drinking her up, that she refuses to meet her gaze. “Hilda, please, what if someone walks in?”
So she does know what Hilda’s doing. Mischief breaks over Hilda’s face, her fingers sliding further down to play with the helm of Marianne’s shirt, lifting it up, pulling it down.
“What if they do?” Realistically, Hilda could probably kick anyone’s ass in this school with her arms tied behind her back. Well, maybe not Dedue, or Dimitri, but almost everyone else she feels pretty good about. Hell, she’d even kick Claude’s ass, if it’d make Marianne feel better. “We’re just two cute girls hanging out, Marianne, what could go wrong?”
Not moving forward, nor backward. Just them, here, in the flow of time, Hilda tracing the wrinkles in Marianne’s face. So tired, stressed, so weary from this dreary pace of life, as though she’s never seen a happy day in her life. Marianne looks so much prettier when she’s laughing, smiling, when she can close her eyes and smooth the wrinkles in her face, peace settling into her heart. Hilda would know—her eyes always wander over to Marianne when the sound of her giggles float over to her, blue hair dancing in the breeze, lips open in a truly, truly breath-taking smile.
Just a girl-crush. That’s all.
“Okay, okay,” Hilda relents, raising her hands to her side. She’s laughing, shrill, unnecessary. Why is her face pink? “I’m just having fun, Marianne! Nothing serious, okay? We’re just,” she swallows, “we’re just girls.”
Their hair would look like sugar floss, pink and blue spirals against the sheets.
“I’ll see you later, okay?” Easy, soft, like Marianne is an animal Hilda’s been tasked to calm. Hilda runs a hand through her pigtails, casual, simple. “I think me and Claude need to go bother professor Byleth anyway. She won’t give us her hair routine.” Basic excuse acquired—if Claude doesn’t help her, she’ll ditch his sore ass in detention next time. “See you at dinner, Marianne!”
Pushed too hard, obviously. Hilda bites down her cheek, resisting the urge to shout, her fingers digging into her palm. Stupid, stupid. Marianne is—she’s precious. Sweet. Fragile, even more so than Lysithea, with skinny wrists and ankles and waist, so frail. Hilda needs to learn to keep her distance so she can properly protect Marianne from the likes of, of Sylvain, or Lorenz, or Ferdinand, or, or, like
“Hilda!” Skinny fingers encircle her wrist, not pulling, just placed there. Hilda freezes, hand on the doorknob, already twisting. Marianne bites at her lips, sunken eyes shut, looking like she wants to cry. Of course she does; Hilda all but left her, just like that, because she didn’t want to be stripped nude. Guilt and shame twist at Hilda’s heart, cruel whispers in her head, and then she’s stepping forward to tug Marianne into a hug.
“Oh, Marianne.” Hilda sighs, raising one hand to stroke along Marianne’s hair. So perfect, every strand brushed into place, even though all Hilda wants is to dig her hand in the braid and have it come undone between her fingers. “I’m not lying, okay? You really are pretty.” And smart, and kind, and a whole sprawling list of compliments Hilda can think of.
Marianne shakes her head, though she doesn’t speak her mind. Her lips are pressed thin into one line, tired, so tired, and Hilda’s only one of the many factors pressing at her exhaustion. With anyone else, Hilda might yell at them, push them away, tell them to work harder, get better, become good enough for her.
Marianne is different. Marianne has always been good enough.
Hilda just wishes she would believe it.
She hums, rocking them in place, hands sliding down to pull Marianne’s cheeks. Marianne’s eyes open, just a fraction, and then Hilda’s leaning in, letting soft breaths ghost over Marianne’s lips. Just to calm her down. Just to let her know.
Hilda kisses her in the yellow light of Marianne’s room.
No flowers, no tea, no time to do her hair and put on new clothes. Just her, and Marianne, and the feeling of Marianne’s hands sliding upward to cross across her back.
“Oh.” Marianne whispers. Hilda smiles, just the quirk of her lips, taking a step back. Too much? Too little? Her breath catches, eyes flickering from Marianne to the door, wondering if it’d be appropriate to leave. She wouldn’t know, she’s never—not like this. Not with her heart pounding so.
“Good oh, or bad oh?” Hilda tries for, laughing. Forced, pitched, and she cringes at her own sound, clamping her mouth shut. Stupid, stupid. Even so, she can’t stop staring at Marianne, hoping that the fluttering within her stomach is a good sign.
“I, um, I, um.” Okay, progress, Marianne’s making noises. Nice. “Hilda,” low, quiet, so much so that Hilda has to lean in close, her breasts pressing against Marianne’s, admiring how her blue locks frame her face, “Um.” Her eyes stare into Hilda’s, mouth making shapes without noise. “I’m not sure.”
“Okay.” And then Hilda’s pressing her lips to Marianne’s a second time, her hands smoothing out the wrinkled fabric of their uniforms. She pulls apart, just a centimeter, quivering on her tip toes. Hard to balance like this, and she presses more of her weight against Marianne, tickling the nape of her neck with her fingers. “Okay?”
Quiet, so quiet Hilda nearly misses it.
Victory screams in Hilda’s chest, tight, and she is unable to stop the spreading smile on her face, pulling Marianne close to kiss at her again. Her hands slide back down to tug at Marianne’s shirt, pulling it upwards.
“Can I,” kiss, “take,” kiss, “this off?” A final kiss, just lingering at Marianne’s lips, smiling upwards at her, drinking in the red flush from ear to ear, the soft panting escaping her pursed lips, the gentle curve of her jaw, quivering. Gorgeous.
Hilda loves her so.
“Okay.” By the goddess, today must be Hilda’s last day alive, for how lucky it’s turning out to be. She beams, unbuttoning both columns of Marianne’s shirts. Such pesky uniforms, really, difficult to put on and take off. Fashionable, at the very least, shortened and tucked in to better show off Hilda’s silhouette. She’d tell Marianne to do the same, if she wasn’t so pretty as is.
“Wow,” Hilda whistles, tugging the blouse open. Marianne flushes, a hand coming up to block her face, though she doesn’t stop her from cupping at her bare breasts. “Marianne, you’re so pretty.”
Even without a bra, her breasts are perfectly pert, soft and malleable in Hilda’s hands. She holds them, one in each palm, lifting them and letting them fall out. Hilda is certain her eyes must be sparkling with how much she’s staring at them.
“Hilda,” Marianne breaths, just a trail of words on a single exhale, “you’re much prettier.”
Is Hilda dying? She must be, if the sudden tightness of her chest is any indication. She laughs, oh goddess, what a creaky laugh, her hands flying off Marianne’s chest. Right. Right.
Just, just a girl crush.
“Here, let me, uh, let me.” Criminally smooth. Hilda grins, sure she looks deranged, before slipping her hands to her dress, unzipping it in one smooth gesture. Pros of wearing a dress—easy access. Marianne stares at her, top nude, as Hilda grasps her dress up in one hand and tosses it overhead, landing somewhere along the floor. Whatever.
“Look!” Awkward, so awkward, oh my goddess. “I mean, I look pretty decent, I guess.” Her hands come up to cup at her own breasts, only to realize her bra is still in the way. She’s cackling, is that a thing, is she really, unhooking it. “Look! My breasts don’t look anywhere as pretty as yours!”
Marianne is frozen, eyes wide as she stares at Hilda’s naked form. Hilda’s bra drops out of her hand to fall to the floor, and then she’s just, standing there. Arms to the side, like this is some medical examination she’s prepared for. Stupid. She feels so stupid. Heat rises upwards to Hilda’s cheeks, and she crosses her arms over her breasts, suddenly self-conscious. Stupid.
“Oh,” Marianne is speaking, and then she’s walking over, her feet a gentle patter on the floor. Hilda’s eyes drift upwards, her lips thinned in a line, as Marianne wavers in place. Awkward, stupid, just her cupping her boobs nude in Marianne’s room.
“Hilda, um,” she swallows. Marianne pinches at her arm, eyes squeezing shut, looking remarkably tense for two girls naked in a room. “Hilda, I think your breasts look fine. I even,” her gaze averts, unable to continue looking at Hilda’s eyes, “I think you’re beautiful, Hilda.”
Beautiful. How many times has Hilda been called that now—beautiful lady, noble, vixen? A woman who knows her beauty is the most dangerous woman in the room, and Hilda’s always known hers. Beautiful. Of course she’s beautiful.
And yet, Marianne saying it sounds a million times more true than any time Hilda’s murmured it to herself in the mirror, pinching at her stomach.
“Well.” Hilda coughs, dropping her hands down. “Well, I think you’re beautiful too. So. Um.”
“Marianne, can I kiss you?” Better. Rather than answering, Marianne cranes her neck downward, drawing Hilda’s chin up with her hand. Hilda gapes, shock-still, when Marianne’s tongue makes a gentle sweep along her bottom lip, her hands smoothing back Hilda’s hair. When Marianne draws back, her brows knit together, Hilda’s eyes are trained on the tiniest bit of spit shining at her lip.
“Was that—was that bad?” No.
“No,” Hilda echoes. “Kiss, kiss me again. Please.”
When Marianne kisses her a second time, Hilda slides her hands back up to cup at Marianne’s breasts, just running her fingers over them. She moans into Marianne’s mouth when Marianne pokes her tongue in, just brushing at her teeth, and then she’s sighing, gasping, when Marianne’s hands come up to pinch at her nipples.
“Marianne, Marianne, I,” Hilda swallows, and then she’s standing on tip toes to kiss at Marianne’s ear, one hand coming up to pull at the band holding Marianne’s braid together. It falls behind her head, a soft smack against her shoulder, and Hilda wants to see it come all undone. “Take me to, to the bed.”
They’re doing this. They’re really doing this.
Hilda sighs against Marianne’s lips as Marianne leads her backward to the mattress. Such a shame, considering how neat Marianne smooths her room, how clean it was prior to Hilda’s entrance. They’d just have to dirty it together.
“You’re so pretty,” Hilda sighs, sliding her hands down, lower, to unlace the corseting of Marianne’s skirt, “I’m so jealous, you know?” Marianne leans down to kiss at her neck, licking a stripe upwards, and Hilda tremors. Strange, new, but pleasant. Pleasurable, even, when Marianne’s hands slip downward to her hips, placing her on the bed.
“Hilda,” breathe, Hilda, every breath matters, “you’re very pretty.” Marianne kisses her again, deep, tongue brushing against her own. Hilda squeaks, surprise shaking her hands when she finally manages to undo Marianne’s knot, tugging her skirt downward. “Though I’m not jealous of you.”
“Yeah?” Hilda laughs, sure that her face is red, shoulders quivering when every brush of Marianne against her. When did she get so sensitive? “Not pretty enough to be jealous over?” Marianne hums against her throat, fingers ghosting the line of her panties. Hilda feels herself shiver, finally pulling off Marianne’s skirt, staring at the soft blue panties blocking her way. “Marianne,” careful, “can I take these off?”
“There’s nothing to gain from jealousy,” Marianne corrects, and then she’s hooking her fingers into her own panties, sliding them down. Hilda is insane, she’s sure of it, because she’s gaping at the small string of slick dripping from Marianne to her panties, eyes frozen until Marianne lifts her leg, tucking the blue pair fully off.
“Hilda?” Her voice shakes, just a whisper. It’s just them, just them two, and then Marianne’s fingers are curling into her hip, slipping under her panties. “Hilda?”
“Marianne.” Marianne. Hilda swallows, staring at the small bush of blue hair at Marianne’s crotch. “Uh, I.” She’s not pink there, more of a flushed purple, even brown, and try as Hilda might, her eyes refuse to dart away. “Marianne.”
“Hilda?” Reclusive, withdrawn. Marianne’s fingers slip out, her eyebrows drawn together, and then she’s leaning back, creating space. Protecting herself. “Hilda? I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.” No, no. It’s not right, that’s not right, and the realization that Marianne is slipping out of her grasp spurs Hilda to dart forward, hands coming around Marianne’s waist.
“Marianne,” Hilda breathes, “you’re beautiful.”
“Oh.” Marianne stares at Hilda, looking for—something, maybe. Hilda doesn’t sure, isn’t sure, only able to focus on the fact that Marianne has apparently been gifted with truly the most beautiful body in the world by the goddess. It’s unfair, really, words failing Hilda when she needs them most.
She groans, butting her head back into Marianne’s breasts. Why, cruel world, is she so bad at this when it matters most?
“Hilda.” Marianne tips her head back upward, catching her eyes for once. Marianne seems lighter, somehow, though they haven’t done anything, not really. Hilda swallows. “We don’t have to keep going, if you don’t want to.”
She wants to. She really, really wants to.
That’s the problem.
“Marianne,” Hilda warns, and then she’s pulling her friend back down onto her, kissing at her pale lips. Marianne squeaks, shoulders squared, before her hands come back down to slide along Hilda’s sides, stroking the flat of her stomach, fingers pulling again at her breasts. Hilda moans, warm, so warm, as her own hand makes its way downward to, to touch. At Marianne.
She’s wet. Wow.
“May I touch you?” Marianne’s voice floats around her, and Hilda grins. One of her hands comes up to tug at her braid, wanting to see it loose. Undone. Marianne tugs at her own pigtails and Hilda laughs.
Sugar floss, pink and blue on the sheets beneath them.
“Yes,” Hilda says. She really is red, from ear to ear, down from her cheeks to her throat, and when Marianne presses a kiss to her collarbone she sighs, craning her head back to allow for better access. Marianne hums, vibrations trailing up Hilda’s neck, as her fingers slip down past Hilda’s lips to circle her entrance.
“Oh, wow.” She’s sure she looks incredibly stupid, staring as Marianne pokes a finger at her entrance. Marianne is, uh, really good at this. A soft giggle brings Hilda’s eyes back up, and then Marianne is kissing her again, soft, gentle, press of lips against lips.
Hilda sighs, falling back to the pillows, tugging Marianne down with her. Her hands slope around Marianne’s breasts, just pushing, pulling, replicating the gentle tugs and pinches Marianne had done to her own boobs. Marianne groans into her mouth, and the sound, the realization, the implication—Hilda did that, it makes her swallow.
“Marianne, you, you,” Hilda’s eyes screw shut, a pitchy gasp from her lips, as Marianne screws a second finger into her, crooking them at the entrance. “Ahh, you, you’re so good at this.” She’d laugh, if she wasn’t so busy tensing her hips, rocking against Marianne’s fingers. “M-more?”
“Sure.” And then Marianne’s breasts are hanging in her face, dangling over her mouth, as Marianne shifts her thigh between Hilda’s leg. Hilda squeaks, unable to stop her eyes from dragging over Marianne’s breasts, did she mention they were luscious, and soft, because they are. Marianne’s leg slots right at Hilda’s lips and then she’s moving, slow, just gentle brushing of her thigh against Hilda’s slit.
Then a finger comes down to press at Hilda’s clit, and she shouts.
“Oh! Oh, wow, Marianne!” She’s okay, she’s okay, just suddenly very aware of how wet she is, how messily she’s making Marianne’s leg as her hips thrust forward, spit building along her gum. Hilda’s groaning, licking and muffling her noises into Marianne’s breasts, hands crossing around her back to comb through Marianne’s hair, finally loose, her back, her waist.
“Is that good?” As though it is a question that even needs to be answered. Hilda would roll her eyes if she wasn’t so busy having air punched out of her, humping Marianne’s leg without shame. She feels so warm, so sensitive, so soft in a way that she’s never felt touching herself.
“Yes!” Her fingers are grasping at Marianne’s side, her eyes dizzy, kissing and tugging at Marianne’s nipples with her lips, her teeth. “Yes, Marianne, you’re doing, you’re doing so great, I,” she’s gasping, spine arching, as Marianne draws circles onto her clit, “Goddess! I’m going, I’m going to—ah!”
Hilda feels herself orgasm like that, a hot flash of something wetting her thighs, Marianne’s hand, Marianne’s legs, surely the bed beneath them. Hilda gapes, mouth open, spittle spilling out of the sides of her lips, her arms pulling Marianne flush. Good, so good, so much better than any orgasm she’s wrung from herself before.
“Hah, ah, what…” The room seems to spin as Hilda’s eyes open, the distant pondering of when they slipped shut. She swallows down large inhales of air, suddenly aware that her mouth is dry, and that Marianne is above her, eyes down, looking, looking,
Like a goddess.
“Hilda?” A whisper. Hilda shivers, rubbing her thighs together, feeling their slickness. Weird, so weird.
“Marianne,” she whispers back, wincing at the obvious croakiness of her own voice. Okay, gross. Never doing that again.
Marianne giggles. It’s soft, sweet, remarkably at ease for the smell of sweat and slick hanging around them, and then Hilda’s finding herself tracing her face. Her scrunched up nose, her open mouth, curled into a smile, her closed eyes, wrinkles smoothed out. Her blue hair, loose around her shoulders, pools and flows into Hilda’s own. Blue and pink. Sugar floss.
Hilda brings her hands upward, tugging at Marianne’s cheeks. Marianne stills, her eyes blinking, and then Hilda’s leaning upward, lips pursed, eyes slipping shut. They kiss like that, gentle, just a peck. Just to be there.
“Come on,” ugh, her voice really is gross, “I need some water.” That sparks another shake of Marianne’s shoulder, another giggle bubbling up out of her. She looks so beautiful like this, soft, gentle, hand in Hilda’s hand.
Marianne really is gorgeous, from her face to her body, to her manner to her soul. Beauty, radiating from every strand of hair, every crinkle of her face. Beauty, as she stands from her bed, fixing her underwear, glancing back at Hilda. Beauty, when she smiles, really smiles, just a small thing for Hilda to see.
Her heart beats, threatening.