Unchained (FFIV; Rydia/Edge; R)

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Unchained

Fandom: FFIV
Pairing: Rydia/Edge
Rating: R (Warnings: of the naked persuasion)

Notes: justira prompted Rydia/Edge for ff_kissbattle, and since I have not written them in a very long time, I wanted to pick this one up. I sort of broke the comment limit, so here it is. Totally written off-the-cuff and unbeta'ed, which is probably not how you should treat sort-of smut, but oh well. It is an experiment in writing smut without dialogue. Or details.

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Eblan’s ceremonies are a lot of pomp and circumstance. Edge knows this. He’s the one who hated it first: dressing up in all the robes and wearing all the medals of years and warriors past, reciting lines of lineage whose names barely carry meaning anymore. He still hates it, but now he finds he cannot mock it as easily; it is one last remaining link to his heritage. He is Eblan, now; he is Geraldine. His parents are not there to lead the rites, and Edge will not cheapen the thing simply because he finds it a little ridiculous: Eblan is pride, and he will do it in their memory if nothing else.

He can’t always get her to come, either, but this time she does, and he makes sure she gets a small honorary line in the rite as befits a royal guest of Eblan: these are the spring rites, when they celebrate the coming-of-age of any young available nobles. Rydia wouldn’t ever admit it, but Edge knows she loves this ceremony best of all; spring is her season, growth and new life blossoming like flowers. He has dressed her like a queen, in the green she loves, silk and ribbons and her obi embroidered with golden threads. She plays her part well, reciting the last seven queens to honor the throne, and she only meets his eyes once with that wry smile he knows so well.

As much as Edge loves Eblan’s traditions, it is only after the ceremony that he feels himself; for him, the robes and armor are heavy like chains, and the speeches and rites even more so. Rydia grabs his hand, and he pulls her away, still feeling heavy and full of power from the words of the spring rite; it’s an odd feeling, letting the history of the throne channel itself through him like magic. Rydia’s hand is like an anchor. They’ve done this before.

They take their time, in the privacy of his old quarters: Edge cannot bring himself to take Rydia to the royal bedchamber, for there are too many connotations and she is not yet his queen, no matter how much he yearns to make it so. They manage to make do, and if Rydia notices, she never says anything. Their relationship isn’t anything like normal – although Edge wouldn’t have it any other way. Rydia’s like a breath of fresh air to him, especially after the pomp of the ritual.

She unchains him from his throne, from his responsibilities, removing one layer after the other. Her fingers are small, her touch light, as she unbuckles the swordbelts and unties the sacred robes. It’s probably sacrilege, somewhere, but Edge doesn’t really care; he has paid his respects to the past already.

He undoes her, as well: untying knots, unwinding ribbons, letting the golden chains he gifted her with fall to the floor. He knows her well; she appreciates gifts, as she appreciates heritage and history both, but she is wild. It’s part of why he loves having her here, after something so rigid and structured: Rydia’s strangeness is almost not-human, almost, and her wild laugh frees him from the weight of his station and his robes.

She’s wearing nothing but her slip, and her eyes are sparkling, lined in kohl and powder that’s already starting to smudge. Edge is wearing next to nothing himself, and he feels light: lighter than air, as if he’s caught up in some sort of spell. (Perhaps he is, he thinks.) He isn’t a king now; he doesn’t have to be anything other than himself. He picks her up, still surprised that someone so powerful can be so small; Rydia told him once that the magic in her blood takes its energy from her bones and muscles, which explains why most heavy magic-users cannot wield a sword. She’s lighter than she looks.

He carries her to the bed and sets her down gently. Freed from all of his restraints, Edge can take the time he wants: he doesn’t have to remember the nobles of the south quarter. He kisses along her neck, promptly forgetting the names of the latest boys to ascend to proper age for training. He glides his hand along her side, pushing the slip out of the way to reveal creamy skin, and the words of the rite vanish from his mind. He isn’t a King, and she isn’t the last of her kind: at this moment, they are only themselves.

Her hands make trails down his back; her fingers spend time outlining the muscles in his shoulders and forearms. Rydia’s whimsy-amusement with his build is no surprise; he returns the curiosity, wondering where in her skinny arms and torso she carries the power to summon meteors. He explores with his mouth, surprised again by the curve of her breast and the odd noise she makes when he brushes it with his fingertips. He can feel her heart beating against his cheek. Her hands slide lower, and she chuckles in her throat as she removes the last piece of silk from his body.

He returns the favor by sliding the slip up off over her head. It messes her hair, leaving a glorious mess of green rioting over his pillow. Rydia grins at him and they’re comrades, again, and she is so damn beautiful lying there. Edge drops his head to kiss her, hard, and her arms and legs wrap around him in response. She’s warm, and real, and he’s tired of having to do what everyone else wants; he’s ready to claim this one thing as his own. He shifts himself a bit, reaching down to brush his fingers against her, and she hisses like a beast. She shifts her hips in return, welcoming, and he presses into her, slowly. She gasps. She gasps every time, as if there’s something surprising and unexpected in the feeling as they come together.

Edge rocks into her, slowly. They have all the time in the world and this is the one moment of his day he’s felt free, which is even funnier because Rydia’s tight around him, her legs tight around his waist and her fingers tangled in his hair. Her presence is intoxicating. It is every time, which is why he keeps inviting her to these silly rituals and ceremonies, even if he’d much prefer to run away with her and never look back; Eblan’s the chain around his neck, and even though he wears it with pride, that doesn’t lighten the load any. She tilts her head upwards for a kiss, dragging his head down, and he obliges. Her tongue flicks against his, and he pauses in his motions for a second, until her kiss becomes more demanding.

His movements become faster, despite both their efforts to prolong it: Edge can’t help it, because she’s the best and brightest thing in this long day and he’s been waiting for this ever since she said she’d visit two weeks ago. Heat swells between them, starting in their flesh but pressing outwards; her eyes flicker-flutter closed. His body tingles; it feels alive, as if it’s his, rather than an ornament: he claims it, and claims her. His hands brush her hair, caress her skin.

Rydia shudders underneath him with another one of those sounds he can’t name but saves in the back of his head to remember during long boring council meetings, and his thrusting becomes almost painfully slow, and then there is a flood of warmth and heat throughout his own shuddering body and he collapses onto her shoulder.

They have all night, with the rites done; they will do this again, and possibly again, and Edge will be tired at tomorrow’s breakfast. Rydia will emerge exhausted and possibly bruised as she makes her way back to Mist. The thought of tomorrow is just a vague empty haze to Edge at the moment. Rydia grumbles and shifts underneath him; he pushes himself up so that she can move to the side. Her face is flushed, and the smile she wears is just for him: no smirking, no hidden messages or innuendo. She is simply happy. He reaches out to brush her cheek with his fingers.

This is as much a ceremony to him as the ritual earlier. Eblan is his, and he is Eblan’s, but there is something about being Rydia’s that he keeps in a small secret place in his chest, barely wanting to admit it. These few brief moments are gifts, feather-light, without responsibility. Days like this he wants to throw Eblan to the four winds and run away with her, deep into the earth where no one will ever bother them.

For now he wraps his arm around her; she curls to him, the perfect size and shape. Tomorrow they will don their cares with their clothes, but for now Edge is just happy to lie around her and breathe.