Silent Affirmation
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This one's been a long time coming!
Title: Silent Affirmation (AO3 version here)
Authors: Mithrigil and Puella_Nerdii
Fandom: Suikoden V
Characters: Frey, Lyon
Words: 1600
Rating: R, first time sex, not very explicit
Summary: They’ve never needed to say a word.
Silent Affirmation
His Highness’s breath ghosts over the nape of Lyon’s neck. His elbows are nearer than they were too, one twitch away from Lyon’s arms, outside the sheets where hers are beneath. They must have nudged closer together in the night. Lyon’s not sure there’s anything wrong with that, exactly, but the Prince is a fitful sleeper, and there’s some time yet before either of them has to be awake, so she doesn’t move. He stirs again, and some of his loose hair drapes over Lyon’s shoulder. It tickles, and she bites her cheek to keep from giggling. It doesn’t tickle for much longer, though. Lyon’s not sure how to describe it, but it’s slow and light and almost drifting over her skin instead of touching it.
He opens his eyes, a quick tight blink and then almost a breath to settle them open. She meets his glance, opens her mouth to apologize for waking him.
The words stop unvoiced on her lips when he smiles and rests his hand on her shoulder, where his hair was a moment ago. His hands have gotten so much stronger, she thinks, and then she isn’t thinking much at all because she’s taking hold of his arm to bring him closer. His lips soften, parting, and it doesn’t matter which of them moves first because either way, their mouths meet.
Lyon’s tried not to wonder what it would be like to kiss him. She doesn’t have to wonder or try not to anymore. His breath feels as natural, as comfortable past her lips as it did on her shoulder, and the gentle urgency of kissing him is so easy it must be both of theirs. Their hands entwine, his left and her right, and that, that’s nearly a kiss on its own.
He sighs, threaded with the faintest trace of his voice, and she cranes up to pull him closer, kiss him deeper. His hair still tickles, on her arm this time, but instead of brushing it away she cards her hands through it, holds him at the nape of the neck. She blushes to think how bold this must seem, but it’s just as bold for him to hold her at the waist, and he is, and his palms are rough even through the sheets. He breaks away to kiss her jaw, her neck, her shoulder, and she clutches him like she’s never clutched anything before. She should return those kisses, though, and twisting her neck when his face is buried in it is difficult but she manages to press her lips to the hollow behind his ear, at least. He shivers against her, and that tingle travels down her spine, too, all the way to her thighs.
She has to break away to touch more than his hand. Almost as soon as she lets go, he pushes up the hem of her shirt, spreads his hands on her back, and she laughs to think they had the same idea. The sheets are a tangled mess now, shoved aside and caught between their knees, and Lyon shifts until she can touch him the way he’s touching her, match her lips to his skin the way his do hers, make his body thrill the way hers does. He gasps into her shoulder when her hands find his chest under his loose tunic. She almost apologizes, but he pulls back and kisses her instead.
Don’t stop, that kiss says, as clearly as words, as earnestly as his face. I won’t either.
She doesn’t, and runs her fingers down his back, traces his spine -- he’s grown so strong, and the way he flexes against her hands makes her proud and breathless all at once. He shoves the sheets aside, or aside enough, and slides his palms over her ribs. Oh, she thinks, or perhaps says, but then he brushes his thumb over her breast and there are no words at all.
She holds on. It’s all she can do. She’s never thought of her body as terribly sensitive or receptive but it’s the Prince, and this is right, and Lyon curls her fists around his shoulders, buries her face in the crook of his neck. Her leg nestles between his and it’s good, good everywhere, under his hands and his lips and her skin wherever he touches. She’d tell him he doesn’t have to, that he should let her take care of him, but there aren’t any words but the half-stuttered gasps that she stifles on his collar, and no answer but his ragged breath on her cheek.
Lyon presses her thigh between his more urgently, and he tips over onto his back with her flushed and tangled on top of him. From the way he smiles, though, he doesn’t mind. Has she ever seen him smile quite like this, from this angle? She doesn’t think so, and she doesn’t want it to be the last time either.
It’s almost a shame to kiss him again, but now she can feel that smile, not just see it.
He peels her shirt off, up over her head, and Lyon stammers out a laugh when it turns out to be more awkward than he’d probably hoped. But now his hands frame her back and shoulders, rush up and down her spine like they don’t know where to settle. She doesn’t know where to put hers either, but the way his thigh pushes at her groin -- oh, she didn’t mean to grab his shoulders so hard, but the room is reeling and hazy and bright at the corners of her eyes.
Her lips form his name, but they’re up against his, and no sound but her breath comes out.
He’s warm and solid beneath her, and that thought burns from her cheeks down to her groin. She bears down on him, grinds on his hipbone until the burn’s almost unbearable. He’s breathing as hard as she is -- she pulls back and runs her thumb over his cheek, which is as flushed as she’s ever seen it. She wonders if the rest of him looks like that, too, and now that she’s wondered she has to see, so she pushes up the hem of his tunic, maps out that skin with her hands, her mouth.
That faint blush leads down past the waist of his pants. His skin is so warm under her lips, her hands, her cheek when she stops to consider that this might be too far. She looks up, catches his eyes, glassed over but intent on hers.
Together, he says without saying.
What he’s offering almost dizzies her too much to nod, but she does. She slides his pants over his hips -- silver, she thinks when she looks down, and her lips twitch toward a laugh -- and settles herself higher on her knees. Not over him, exactly, but close, close enough that his hardness nudges against her hip. He sits up and kisses her, encircles her in his arms, holds her tight and steady like he never plans on letting go again. She kisses him back until she can’t breathe, rests her hands on his hips and then trails them lower, low enough to make him gasp.
And just as she takes hold of him, he slides his fingertip up between her legs.
They move together, breathe together -- her fist tightens, and his fingers press in, and if their hips clash a little it’s only because Lyon wants this, so much, wants him so much that she can’t help moving to let him in. Her body flushes with heat, at how wanton she must look and how wonderful it feels and how the Prince looks before her, just as bright and gasping and wonderful as she feels, inside and out. She can’t muster up a kiss but she does press her mouth to his shoulder, his neck, breathes in as much of him as she can. He crooks his finger inside -- she nearly bashes her forehead against his jaw but doesn’t, thank goodness, because then he might stop and she couldn’t bear it if he did. It’s already hard enough to think about what her hand’s doing to him, with what his hand’s doing to her, but moving the same, touching the same, that’s all that matters right now because he should feel as good as she does.
One look in his eyes tells her, clear as light, that he does.
And that, that feels like everything.
The coil of heat bursts at the base of her spine, and his skin sears and tautens in her hand -- it hits her like a wave, like a breaking dam. Holding him, touching him through it is all that matters, and Lyon anchors herself on his hands, and him on hers, and when she comes down and remembers to breathe neither of them has let go.
Even after it’s done, she doesn’t stop moving. He’s still moving, too, but differently -- his chest stutters against hers, his fingers curl in her hair. She leans back to look at him, and his smile fills her like sunlight. Lyon moves in to kiss him again, and apparently he had the same idea because their foreheads bump before they actually manage the kissing part.
She opens her mouth to apologize. They kiss instead.
It’s fine. They both know.
***
.
This one's been a long time coming!
Title: Silent Affirmation (AO3 version here)
Authors: Mithrigil and Puella_Nerdii
Fandom: Suikoden V
Characters: Frey, Lyon
Words: 1600
Rating: R, first time sex, not very explicit
Summary: They’ve never needed to say a word.
Silent Affirmation
His Highness’s breath ghosts over the nape of Lyon’s neck. His elbows are nearer than they were too, one twitch away from Lyon’s arms, outside the sheets where hers are beneath. They must have nudged closer together in the night. Lyon’s not sure there’s anything wrong with that, exactly, but the Prince is a fitful sleeper, and there’s some time yet before either of them has to be awake, so she doesn’t move. He stirs again, and some of his loose hair drapes over Lyon’s shoulder. It tickles, and she bites her cheek to keep from giggling. It doesn’t tickle for much longer, though. Lyon’s not sure how to describe it, but it’s slow and light and almost drifting over her skin instead of touching it.
He opens his eyes, a quick tight blink and then almost a breath to settle them open. She meets his glance, opens her mouth to apologize for waking him.
The words stop unvoiced on her lips when he smiles and rests his hand on her shoulder, where his hair was a moment ago. His hands have gotten so much stronger, she thinks, and then she isn’t thinking much at all because she’s taking hold of his arm to bring him closer. His lips soften, parting, and it doesn’t matter which of them moves first because either way, their mouths meet.
Lyon’s tried not to wonder what it would be like to kiss him. She doesn’t have to wonder or try not to anymore. His breath feels as natural, as comfortable past her lips as it did on her shoulder, and the gentle urgency of kissing him is so easy it must be both of theirs. Their hands entwine, his left and her right, and that, that’s nearly a kiss on its own.
He sighs, threaded with the faintest trace of his voice, and she cranes up to pull him closer, kiss him deeper. His hair still tickles, on her arm this time, but instead of brushing it away she cards her hands through it, holds him at the nape of the neck. She blushes to think how bold this must seem, but it’s just as bold for him to hold her at the waist, and he is, and his palms are rough even through the sheets. He breaks away to kiss her jaw, her neck, her shoulder, and she clutches him like she’s never clutched anything before. She should return those kisses, though, and twisting her neck when his face is buried in it is difficult but she manages to press her lips to the hollow behind his ear, at least. He shivers against her, and that tingle travels down her spine, too, all the way to her thighs.
She has to break away to touch more than his hand. Almost as soon as she lets go, he pushes up the hem of her shirt, spreads his hands on her back, and she laughs to think they had the same idea. The sheets are a tangled mess now, shoved aside and caught between their knees, and Lyon shifts until she can touch him the way he’s touching her, match her lips to his skin the way his do hers, make his body thrill the way hers does. He gasps into her shoulder when her hands find his chest under his loose tunic. She almost apologizes, but he pulls back and kisses her instead.
Don’t stop, that kiss says, as clearly as words, as earnestly as his face. I won’t either.
She doesn’t, and runs her fingers down his back, traces his spine -- he’s grown so strong, and the way he flexes against her hands makes her proud and breathless all at once. He shoves the sheets aside, or aside enough, and slides his palms over her ribs. Oh, she thinks, or perhaps says, but then he brushes his thumb over her breast and there are no words at all.
She holds on. It’s all she can do. She’s never thought of her body as terribly sensitive or receptive but it’s the Prince, and this is right, and Lyon curls her fists around his shoulders, buries her face in the crook of his neck. Her leg nestles between his and it’s good, good everywhere, under his hands and his lips and her skin wherever he touches. She’d tell him he doesn’t have to, that he should let her take care of him, but there aren’t any words but the half-stuttered gasps that she stifles on his collar, and no answer but his ragged breath on her cheek.
Lyon presses her thigh between his more urgently, and he tips over onto his back with her flushed and tangled on top of him. From the way he smiles, though, he doesn’t mind. Has she ever seen him smile quite like this, from this angle? She doesn’t think so, and she doesn’t want it to be the last time either.
It’s almost a shame to kiss him again, but now she can feel that smile, not just see it.
He peels her shirt off, up over her head, and Lyon stammers out a laugh when it turns out to be more awkward than he’d probably hoped. But now his hands frame her back and shoulders, rush up and down her spine like they don’t know where to settle. She doesn’t know where to put hers either, but the way his thigh pushes at her groin -- oh, she didn’t mean to grab his shoulders so hard, but the room is reeling and hazy and bright at the corners of her eyes.
Her lips form his name, but they’re up against his, and no sound but her breath comes out.
He’s warm and solid beneath her, and that thought burns from her cheeks down to her groin. She bears down on him, grinds on his hipbone until the burn’s almost unbearable. He’s breathing as hard as she is -- she pulls back and runs her thumb over his cheek, which is as flushed as she’s ever seen it. She wonders if the rest of him looks like that, too, and now that she’s wondered she has to see, so she pushes up the hem of his tunic, maps out that skin with her hands, her mouth.
That faint blush leads down past the waist of his pants. His skin is so warm under her lips, her hands, her cheek when she stops to consider that this might be too far. She looks up, catches his eyes, glassed over but intent on hers.
Together, he says without saying.
What he’s offering almost dizzies her too much to nod, but she does. She slides his pants over his hips -- silver, she thinks when she looks down, and her lips twitch toward a laugh -- and settles herself higher on her knees. Not over him, exactly, but close, close enough that his hardness nudges against her hip. He sits up and kisses her, encircles her in his arms, holds her tight and steady like he never plans on letting go again. She kisses him back until she can’t breathe, rests her hands on his hips and then trails them lower, low enough to make him gasp.
And just as she takes hold of him, he slides his fingertip up between her legs.
They move together, breathe together -- her fist tightens, and his fingers press in, and if their hips clash a little it’s only because Lyon wants this, so much, wants him so much that she can’t help moving to let him in. Her body flushes with heat, at how wanton she must look and how wonderful it feels and how the Prince looks before her, just as bright and gasping and wonderful as she feels, inside and out. She can’t muster up a kiss but she does press her mouth to his shoulder, his neck, breathes in as much of him as she can. He crooks his finger inside -- she nearly bashes her forehead against his jaw but doesn’t, thank goodness, because then he might stop and she couldn’t bear it if he did. It’s already hard enough to think about what her hand’s doing to him, with what his hand’s doing to her, but moving the same, touching the same, that’s all that matters right now because he should feel as good as she does.
One look in his eyes tells her, clear as light, that he does.
And that, that feels like everything.
The coil of heat bursts at the base of her spine, and his skin sears and tautens in her hand -- it hits her like a wave, like a breaking dam. Holding him, touching him through it is all that matters, and Lyon anchors herself on his hands, and him on hers, and when she comes down and remembers to breathe neither of them has let go.
Even after it’s done, she doesn’t stop moving. He’s still moving, too, but differently -- his chest stutters against hers, his fingers curl in her hair. She leans back to look at him, and his smile fills her like sunlight. Lyon moves in to kiss him again, and apparently he had the same idea because their foreheads bump before they actually manage the kissing part.
She opens her mouth to apologize. They kiss instead.
It’s fine. They both know.
***
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