Chapter Text
Sylvain has tried his luck hitting on Lady Rhea a time or two, and never had much luck. Though he knows that he is likely committing some cardinal sin by doing so, he really can’t help himself, when she is as gorgeous as she is. And, even when she makes it clear that she has no interest in such things, with polite but clear rejections, he still tries it every now and then, just in case she might have changed her mind.
A boy can dream, after all.
What he does not realize is that something has recently changed, where Rhea is concerned. A rather old rumor about him has finally reached her ears, and, despite her apparent lack of interest, this is something that she is curious about. The fact is, Rhea has never been kissed before, and when she hears that Sylvain is the best kisser in the monastery, she can’t easily forget that. The idea sticks in her mind like a burr, and she finds herself glancing at him during services, her gaze lingering on his mouth.
So, the next time he corners her after church, she doesn't immediately dismiss him.
"Sylvain," she begins, her voice as placid and distant as the moon. "Your persistence is...noted."
Sylvain leans against the pillar, all easy smiles and lazy charm. "Just trying to get a heavenly being to notice a humble sinner."
She doesn't smile. Her eyes, usually so serene, seem to pin him in place. "I have heard whispers about you. A particular...skill."
His grin falters for a fraction of a second. A skill? "I try to be a man of many talents, Lady Rhea."
"They say," she continues, her tone dropping to a near whisper, making him lean closer instinctively, "that you are the most accomplished kisser in this monastery. Perhaps in all of Fodlan." She watches his throat bob as he swallows. "Is this mere gossip, or a truth you can lay claim to?"
The flippant answer is right there on the tip of his tongue. It's always on the tip of his tongue. But the sheer, unexpected intensity of her stare, the way she's dissecting him, leaves him unbalanced. This is not the usual game. He feels a prickle of sweat on his neck. "I...wouldn't want to spread baseless rumors.."
"Good," she says, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze. "Then you will not mind proving it."
He blinks. "Proving it?"
"Meet me tonight," she says, the words as crisp and final as a winter frost. "At the Goddess Tower. Alone."
Then, she turns and sweeps away, her robes a blur against the stone, leaving Sylvain staring after her, the confident smirk having completely vanished from his face.
~X~
Sylvain tries to hide his nerves now that he actually has Rhea all alone at the top of the Goddess Tower. But it's hard to do that when the woman in question is the archbishop of the Church of Seiros. He's flirted with danger before, but this is something else entirely.
Rhea, for her part, is the picture of serenity. Her hands are clasped in front of her, her expression placid, as if they are merely here to discuss scripture. But beneath the calm facade, a hot, unfamiliar curiosity is beginning to stir. She can't stop her eyes from darting to his lips, wondering what all the fuss is about.
He takes a step closer, the space between them shrinking until he can feel the faint warmth radiating from her. "So," he begins, his voice a low murmur that's an attempt at his usual suave tone, but it comes out a little rougher than he intended. "You wanted to see for yourself?"
Rhea lifts her chin, her gaze unwavering. "Idle chatter serves no purpose, Sylvain. Either the rumors are true, or they are not. Show me."
There's no passion in her voice, no plea. It is a command.
He has never been more terrified in his life.
Sylvain's hands, usually so confident, tremble slightly as he cups her face. Her skin is cool and smooth, like polished marble. He leans in, closing the final inch, and presses his lips to hers.
It's tentative at first, a soft, questioning pressure. He expects her to be stiff, unyielding. She is, for a moment. He feels her body go rigid, her breath hitch. But then, something shifts. He feels a tiny, almost imperceptible sigh escape her, her lips softening against his just a fraction. A thrill shoots through him, as he realizes that she's not immune after all.
Emboldened, he deepens the kiss, tilting his head to slant his mouth more firmly over hers. He traces the seam of her lips with his tongue, a silent request for entry. Her gasp is audible this time, a sharp intake of air against his mouth. Her hands, still clasped, clench so tightly her knuckles turn white. She is trying to fight it, to maintain her composure, but the wall is cracking.
His tongue sweeps into her mouth, and a low groan rumbles in his chest. His right hand slides from her cheek, down the elegant column of her neck, until it comes to rest on the soft swell of her breast. He can feel her frantic heartbeat against his palm.
The shock of it breaks her trance. Rhea rips her mouth from his, her breathing ragged. "Sylvain!" she gasps, hereyes wide with a mixture of outrage and something darker, something she can't name. Her hand comes up to push at his chest, but it lacks force. It's more a gesture of protest than an actual attempt to stop him.
His eyes, dark with desire, meet hers. "Rhea," he breathes, and the use of her name, so intimate, so forbidden, is what shatters her last bit of control.
She doesn't push him away again. Instead, her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss that follows is no longer a demonstration, but a devouring. He claims her mouth with a hungry desperation, and she meets him with a surprising ferocity that has been simmering beneath her stoic surface for years. His other arm wraps around her waist, hauling her against him as he walks her backward until her back hits the cool stone of the tower wall. He pins her there, his body flush against hers, one leg pushing between hers, his knee pressing up against her core. She makes a strangled sound against his mouth, a whimper of pure, unadulterated need.
His hands are everywhere. The one on her breast squeezes, his thumb brushing over the peak of her nipple, which hardens instantly even through the layers of her robes. He groans at the response, the sound vibrating through both of them. Then, in a bold move that makes Rhea's head spin, he hooks an arm under her leg, lifting it to wrap around his waist. He shifts, hoisting her up until her feet leave the ground, bearing her weight against the wall with the strength of his body. The new position presses them together even more intimately, and she can feel the hard ridge of his arousal straining against his pants.
His free hand slides down from her waist, over the curve of her hip, to cup the full, supple flesh of her ass. He kneads her, pulling her more firmly against him, grinding their hips together in a slow, deliberate rhythm that sends bolts of pleasure through her. Rhea has never felt anything like it. It's base, it's carnal, and it's intoxicating. She arches into him, her leg tightening around his waist, her body moving with his in a primal, instinctive dance. Her hands, which had been fisted in his shirt, now roam over the broad expanse of his back, feeling the taut muscle beneath the fabric. She wants more, want to feel him, his skin, his warmth, all of him.
As if reading her mind, Sylvain breaks the kiss, panting. His lips are swollen, his pupils blown wide with desire. "Rhea," he gasps again, the name a reverent prayer on his lips. His hands move to the complex clasps of her high collared vestments, fumbling with them in his haste. His fingers, usually so dexterous with a lance, feel clumsy and awkward.
Rhea's own hands are not idle. She tugs at the hem of his shirt, pulling it from the waistband of his pants. Her knuckles brush against the hot skin of his stomach, and he hisses at the contact. Sylvain steadies himself and begins to kiss down her neck.
Rhea shudders, a soft moan escaping her. She tilts her head back, giving him better access, her body completely pliant in his arms. He kisses his way down her neck, his tongue tracing a path over her collarbone. She is lost. The archbishop, the leader of the Church, the woman who has always been in control, is gone. In her place is a creature of pure sensation, driven by a need she never knew she possessed. She pulls at his shirt again, more insistently this time, and he gets the message. He pulls back just enough to yank the garment over his head, tossing it aside.
The sight of his bare chest, lit by the moonlight, makes her breath catch. He is all lean muscle and smooth skin, a testament to years of training. Her hands are on him in an instant, exploring the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. She loves the feel of him, the way he trembles under her touch. He recaptures her mouth, the kiss a mess of tongues and teeth and breathless moans. He presses her harder against the wall, his leg still supporting her, his hands roaming freely over her body.
The world dissolves into a haze of moonlight and heated skin. Time loses its meaning, stretching and contracting with each fevered kiss. The rustle of fabric becomes a constant rhythm, a counterpoint to their ragged breaths and the soft, desperate sounds they coax from one another. Rhea's vestments, once a symbol of her untouchable authority, become a tangled heap on the stone floor. Sylvain's uniform follows soon after. Each discarded layer is another wall falling away, another admission of the raw, undeniable current pulling them under.
They spend nearly half the night like this, eventually stripped down to their underwear, before, at last, they pull apart. Sylvain’s chest heaves against hers. He doesn't let go of her immediately, his hands resting on her waist, but the connection has changed. The fire has faded, leaving behind the stark, cold light of reality.
The awkwardness hangs in the air as the two of them struggle to catch their breaths. They are no longer the flirtatious student and the unapproachable archbishop. They are just a man and a woman, scantily clad and breathless in the aftermath of a mutual loss of control.
They move in a clumsy silence, the passion that had guided their movements just moments ago now replaced by a stiff formality. Neither speak as they get dressed. Sylvain, ever the actor, tries to regain some semblance of his usual nonchalance, but the gesture falls flat. He keeps his eyes averted from hers, focusing on the intricate clasps of her robes as if they were a fascinating puzzle. Rhea, for her part, has already retreated behind her mask of composure, her expression blank, but her hands tremble as she smooths down the front of her robes.
“We should both return to our rooms,” is the last thing that she says, before walking past him.
~X~
Both find themselves suffering the effects of being so scantily clad in the cold Goddess Tower at night, but even when both Sylvain and Rhea find themselves bedridden with colds, neither of them can deny the same desire, taking root in both of them.
They both really want to do that again, both unable to stop thinking about it in the aftermath. The illness feels almost worth it, and both are willing to risk that once more.