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Unclasp it like jewels, the gold still hot from your body. Empty your basket of figs. Spill your wine.
- Ellen Bass, 'Basket of Figs'
Of all the experiences Solene has been afforded in the course of her adventures, this new love she’s come to know is a foreign one.
She’s known many sorts of love. Varied and beautiful and familiar—the way she loves her dear, departed mother, an ache in her chest that never fades even with the passage of time. The way she loves adventure, the kindling of an undying flame of wonder in her heart when her feet trod new ground—even when she ends up bloodied and beaten somewhere along the path. The way she loves friends that she’s lost, grand blossoms of affection that had bloomed for them in the garden of her heart, pressed and preserved in the words she’s scrawled in many a journal. That she might never forget, that she might carry them always.
And of course, the way that she loves friends that remain beside her to this day. The Scions—her family. Her dearest ones. Her love for them had sprouted slowly but sure, from a tender sapling that had taken root long ago and grown strong over the length of her journey. That love had put steadfastness and strength at her back, always.
All those loves, she knows well.
But G’raha Tia is another matter entirely.
Steadfastness and strength, he has in abundance. A man possessed of more, perhaps, than Solene has ever known, for he can claim feats that defy comprehension. But even more than that, a humbleness that often verges far beyond the reasonable, and every bit as endearing to her as it is frustrating.
She watches him now, fiery hair and eyes bright under the midday Mor Dhona sun, a beacon in the midst of a cluster of people at the markets that she can easily pinpoint from down the Toll's main thoroughfare. A heavy-laden basket held carefully in his strong hands—full of sandwiches, she realizes, with an odd flutter in her gut.
G’raha Tia, she thinks, pulse jumping in her throat. Ever eager to do a kindness, already endearing himself to the locals by listening to their requests for aid and promising help with a smile and, by his own sheepish admission, one of the only meals he can make with any confidence. As though he needs any help being personable.
She pauses more than halfway up the road.
This feeling is foreign. An odd flutter winds its way up Solene's insides—to her heart, where it bursts like a star, scattering all of her thoughts. Closer now, her gaze remains on him.
Rare is the opportunity to study him without being watched. To linger on his features. Eyes that glint like rubies in the sun, under the ink-black sweep of his lashes. Long, neatly bound hair that he no longer needs to brush out of his face half so much with dark clips pinning it back. The bright flash of his smile, the full bow of his mouth. Broad shoulders, a stocky frame now that he regularly eats well and trains hard. Muscular arms wiping the sweat from his brow. Large hands with calloused palms.
Her heart batters itself against the cage of her ribs, beating like a wild swallow's wings.
She’s not unfamiliar with attraction—with desire. She’s known it before, a handful of times. She’s had lovers, infrequent as her dalliances were. The allure of women or men, of features that make her pulse quicken—sharp eyes, pretty mouths, steady hands—it’s not an alien experience.
But then, none of those past attractions had ever done for her what G’raha Tia had done. None had ever held her memory in their heart for centuries. None had ever tenderly called her their unbroken thread, their lodestar, the star that had charted the course of their life. None had ever spoken to her with a manner that defied logic and reason—with as much gentleness as there could be single-minded fervor. With certainty in the face of death. With composure, and faith unshakable—faith in her. As though she were as immutable as the laws of nature.
None had ever looked at her so intensely, with a fixedness that sometimes borders on ferocity, on something akin to hunger, the way that G’raha does.
He’s taken up residence in what feels like almost all of her waking thoughts, and in many a sleeping dream. A presence that, when she turns the idea over in her mind and examines its facets, she realizes has become vital to her.
Surely, it is love. Love that made him a need, a necessity like food and drink, like rest after a long day. Love that had snatched her heart up in its grasp before she had even known it happened—until she’d been standing in the Umbilicus on a fateful day long ago, light-bleached tears burning trails down her face, choking out his name to a ghost with thunderous realization. Love that hollowed her bones and tore howling anguish from her throat at the sight of him frozen in time, claimed by unyielding crystal. Love that had carried her from the Rising Stones all the way to the threshold of Syrcus Tower at a full sprint, his spirit vessel biting into her hand until she bled, until her lungs were afire.
She hardly knows what to do with it all now, if she's being honest with herself. So it remains gathered in her heart, growing every day. Caught in between ventures while the others find their bearings in the Source again, she finally has time, now. But as wonderful as it is, it’s also daunting.
Frightening, even.
And it needn’t be, Solene knows. But standing alone, watching G’raha under the limitless blue sky, squinting against the hot sun—gods, it feels as big as anything else she’s ever felt.
And though it leaves her uncertain, it's also far worth every weight she’s had to bear when the crowd thins, and G’raha catches sight of her, his ears bolting upright the moment he does. He weaves through the throng of people, polite apologies on his lips, but her long strides carry her to his side first.
"You're back," he says, flashing her a grin that warms her from the inside out.
"You're busy," she responds, peering down into the sandwich basket, not quite so full now. She peers at him through her lashes, mouth quirking. “Trade you for one,” she says, unslinging her pack from her shoulder and offering him a leather-bound tome from within.
He stills for a long moment, eyes wide and breath stuttering in his chest. The basket nearly slips from his grasp.
This copy of Heavensward is nearly as old as he is, and much like himself, the age doesn’t show. Solene can feel the strong enchantment that preserves its gold-tooled binding, and the ivory pages within. But even so, she holds it carefully, well aware of how precious it is by virtue of the look in his eyes as he moves to take it from her.
“This is…”
“Yours,” she finishes when his words taper off. He blinks up at her, that familiar wonderment in his gaze that tugs insistently at the strings of her heart. She smiles. “I went back to the First. Brought you a few things from your quarters that I thought you’d miss.” She rolls her eyes then, a wry twist to her smile. “Moren wouldn’t let me take the whole library.”
That earns her a laugh, bright and half-incredulous. His tail whips sharply behind him. “Solene, I scarcely have the words… Mere thanks is not enough,” he breathes, and she bites back the urge to tell him that the way he’d said her name just now is already plenty. He squints up at her. “And certainly not a single sandwich.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She snatches up a liver-cheese sandwich from the basket before he can protest. “Believe me,” she says, grinning and taking a bite, “I’m easily satisfied.”
G’raha goes oddly still at that, and her heart seizes at the way his eyes darken, pupils fattening before he swiftly glances away from her. His grip on Heavensward goes white-knuckle tight, and she swallows hard, barely tasting anything. The midday sun beats down fiercely on her head, warming her face, bright spots of color blooming high on her cheeks; she looks away as well, then, hoping to rein in the sudden galloping beat of her heart.
“Even so,” he says after a silence that stretches a little too long, a tension billowing in the space between them. “I shall strive to find a worthy repayment for your kindness, Solene.” His voice drops, then, roughening with something a little more intense—something that lingers low in her gut. “Something that well pleases you.”
She shivers in the blistering summer heat.
G’raha is adamantly a man of his word. Though his gift is not delivered in-person, it’s the first thing that Solene notices when she returns to her room in the Rising Stones late one night, a bright spot of color on the nightstand that draws her eye. She toes off her boots and pads over, sinking down on the edge of her bed and plucking forth the note tucked under a slim box with a tidy bow.
She bites the inside of her cheek, fighting back a silly smile at his familiar, sloping scrawl. Solene, it reads, I have it on good authority that you are fond of collecting these. Nevertheless, I pray they are to your liking. And then, slightly untidy, as if scribbled in a rush, I thought of you when I saw them.
Drawing the box to her lap, she carefully removes the bow and lifts the lid—and presses an unsteady hand to her tremulous smile.
Inside are botanical miniatures—three of them, she realizes with a gasp of delight, removing one after the other and turning to lay them out on the bed. All with impressive, painstaking depiction: one, delicate stalks of lavender that almost appear to sway in a gentle summer breeze. Another, blood currants native to the Black Shroud dangling ripe and heavy from a shrub, shining like jewels. And the last, a blooming Azeyma rose, with its satiny petals rendered in such rich crimson detail that it steals her breath.
Solene presses cool palms to her cheeks, feeling their blazing warmth, and grins. He thought of me, she thinks, gaze tracing the brushstrokes on every miniature and seeing only vibrant beauty before her, three times over. After a long moment, she carefully gathers them up and returns them to their box, storing it in her pack for the next time she returns home.
They linger in her mind for a long while, though, still occupying her thoughts even after her nightly ablutions are done and she lays awake in bed. Her thoughts won’t still, endlessly circling around her gift and its giver. She imagines him picking through the markets, imagines the gleam of triumph that lights up his eyes when he succeeds at a task—and her heart flutters to think that such an expression might’ve crossed his face every time he found something for her.
Something that would please her.
She fists her hands in the sheets, drawing her knees up to her chest, as though she can shield her body from the levin current running through her. As though such a feeling could be muted enough for her to fall asleep and not dream of large, warm hands, rough with callouses, and ruby eyes glittering beneath dark lashes.
Despite what he’d said about the gift being thanks for retrieving his personal effects from the tower in the First, Solene can’t resist turning things into a game of one-upmanship afterward.
It starts with her sneaking a pouch of bubble chocolates from one of her favorite sweetshops into his pack. She watches him discover it midway on a trek to Saint Coinach's Find, pulling it out by the crimson ribbon tied 'round it that's an exact match for his eyes. His brow furrows in confusion before his ears prick, and he glances sidelong at her in askance.
She grins at him, and triumph sings in her blood when bright spots of color blaze high on his cheeks. A rush of satisfaction at the realization, He's flattered. It feels as good as any battle-won victory.
"Really, Solene," he mutters, fighting and failing to keep a smile off his face. He doesn't quite manage to sound chastising.
"Really, Graha," she mimics. “I won’t hear anything but thank you, Solene.”
“Thank you, Solene,” he parrots, and the way he laughs, husky and warm, slinks down the length of her spine like nectar off a flower. I win, her pride crows when he pops a chocolate into his mouth, and he lets out a soft hum of approval, ears fluttering happily. I win, it calls again, when he offers one to her, and their fingers brush as she plucks it from his grasp.
It melts on her tongue and tastes even sweeter than she remembers, somehow.
He’s never one to be outdone. Some days later, she’s perched high on the edge of one of the Toll’s walkways, journal tucked under her chin as she digs in her pack for her inkpot and quill. The former, she finds easily enough, but the latter she finds is not a plain, oft-used dodo feather—rather, what she pulls from her pack is a grand plume of vibrant cerulean. She gapes at it for a long moment, this impressive Bi Fang feather quill that she most certainly hadn’t owned before.
She’s up in a flash, journal and inkpot dropped back into her pack, beautiful and, most surely, expensive quill held fast in her grasp as she sprints down the length of the walkway, neck craned over the side to search the crowds below. She spots a familiar duo making their way across the aetheryte plaza—Thancred with his gunblade slung over a shoulder, shining steel and white coat bright in the sunlight. And beside him—
“G’raha!” she shouts, voice carried well over the edge of the walkway and to his russet ears far below. The pair of them turn, along with a few other heads in the crowd, and G’raha’s gaze immediately finds her where she leans against the parapet. She holds the quill aloft, and even from up here, she can make out his smug smile.
“Now, now,” he calls up, shielding his eyes against the sun. “I won’t hear anything but thank you, G’raha.” Beside him, she sees rather than hears Thancred chuckling.
“Thank you, G’raha,” she says, but it comes out the funniest cross between flustered and biting, as though what she really means to say is, You little shite. Her heart riots in her chest, and she can’t help but laugh when he grins and gives her a cheeky wave before turning away, off with Thancred to wherever today’s venture takes them. She watches his form shrink in the distance until she can’t make him out anymore, absently rolling the Bi Fang quill between her fingers all the while.
It’s back and forth after that, a strange dance that Solene doesn’t know by heart—doesn’t know with any certainty at all, really, if she’s moving to the right rhythm or not. But even though she can’t manage to give voice to her feelings—to the depth of her affection for him—at the very least, she can bask in the warmth of his gaze, his smile, his solid presence beside her. She can give him things, tokens of this very affection, even if he doesn’t know that’s what they are. Even if she can’t bring herself to tell him.
It’s worth it a thousand times over to see the way G’raha brightens at them—at an anthology of battle-songs she knows he doesn’t own, or a few volumes of travel literature on places he’s never seen in this world, the world untouched by the Eighth Umbral Calamity.
“Thought I might give you ideas,” she says, sitting cross-legged beside him against a wall in the Rising Stones, tucked in an empty spot beside the bar. It’s so late that most of the Scions have long since retired to bed, but she keeps her voice low despite there being nobody around to disturb. She bumps his knee with her own. “For that grand adventure I’ve yet to take you on.”
He swallows hard, eyes blood-dark under the lamplight as he traces their leather bindings with gentle reverence, and she tries not to envy the tomes. He chooses the volume on the Sea of Clouds to crack open first, the windswept sky islands high above Abalathia's Spine laid before him.
"High into the heavens," he recites, though not from the tome's pages, but from memory. "Where isles of earth and stone floated as clouds."
Her throat tightens; she recognizes Edmont de Fortemps's words, even though it would take her a lifetime to revisit the pages of Heavensward as often as G'raha had. "It's beautiful there," she says. “Freezing, though—colder than Coerthas, even,” she adds, and then reaches over to pluck at the tasseled end of his scarf, draped loosely over his shoulders. "Tataru's handiwork will serve you well."
A soft huff of laughter escapes him, sounding almost wistful. "I should very much like to see it." And then, a little quieter—as though he isn't entirely certain he should say it aloud, "With you."
She closes her eyes against the vicious squeeze of her heart. Against her impulses, flaring to life, urging her to take his hand, to thread her fingers through his, and kiss that mouth that speaks with such uncertainty.
But she's afraid. It's small, an absurd seed of unease that would shadow her if she lets it take root—and yet, she lets it sit in the garden of her heart regardless. Because what if he looked at her differently afterwards? What if this friendship, this casual intimacy she loves so dearly, craves so much of, would change? What if it would be lost to her? Unlikely though that outcome would be, what if?
Or worse. What if she tethered him to her again, for yet another lifetime, where he let himself be subsumed by her existence? Where he deferred to her needs, and again went on casting aside his own? All in service to his hero, never realizing that to her, he is the greatest hero of all. That his happiness is a precious treasure. Never mind friendship, what if she lost him?
No, she thinks, the stone cool against her back, the heat in her burning down to coals. Don’t say it. Not now. Not while there’s still so much he could do… without the burden of me upon him.
So instead, she lists to one side, until their shoulders touch, until her cheek lays upon the crown of his head. She hears his breath catch in his throat, and she smiles.
"Well, I don't mean for you to travel alone," she says, a tone that brooks no argument. "There's so much for you to see. So much I think you'd love." And then, a little quieter, the one selfish liberty she'll claim this night, "And I certainly won't suffer anybody else to show you those sights first."
He chuckles at that, the sound vibrating through them both. His tail twitches nervously before settling, curling behind her as if to gather her to him. And then she feels him soften against her, a comfortable weight, pressed together along the length of their bodies. She nudges his thigh with her own, and he bumps her ankle with the toe of his boot.
Solene feels as though she's swallowed candleflame, gentle heat casting a tender glow in her heart. She breathes deep, catching the fragrance of his soap, of rosemary and sweet marjoram. Warm and woodsy, she hopes that it lingers on her skin after they both retire for the night. That he might visit her dreams—and that mere dreams might remain enough.
"Fancy a drink?" Solene asks at the end of a meal at the Seventh Heaven. It’s quiet, a late supper taken together after her return from another trip to the First—a lengthier one, this time, with nearly a moon passed. She still smells of the fragrant blossoms of Il Mheg, a cloying perfume that lingers on her skin and makes her head feel light.
G’raha smiles at her, pushing a candied chestnut from his plate to her own, their elbows bumping. “What do you have in mind?” he asks, glancing toward the bar, but she shakes her head and leans down to reach into her pack.
She retrieves a long, unmarked bottle from within, settling it on the table with a quiet thump. He takes it and studies it curiously, the deep red liquid swirling within shining in the light. “There’s a certain type of berry that grows in Titania’s lovely gardens,” she says, gesturing to the bottle. “One that varies in taste from vine to vine. And the loveliest of branches saw fit to grace me with free reign over a patch of the absolute sweetest ones.”
“How envious,” he says with a low chuckle, “to be so plainly favored by the Faerie King.”
She stifles a laugh, stealing another candied chestnut from his plate—an action he observes with a smile that makes her pulse jump in her throat. “Well, I told them I’d share the bounty with you, you see.” He blinks at her, ears flicking upward in surprise, and she nudges him. “Juice from the sweetest pixieberries, grown only in a land where hardly any mortal dares to tread… What do you think?”
“I think you’re still trying to best me for the Bi Fang quill.”
“Well spotted.” Her grin is downright wolfish, and she nods to the drink. “The pixies apparently enjoy this in abundance in their lovely kingdom, but here…” She shrugs, a smugness in her expression she doesn’t bother hiding. “This is the only bottle of its kind that exists on the Source.”
G’raha barks out a sharp laugh, color rising to his cheeks. He examines the bottle and then cuts his gaze at her, eyes glittering like jewels. “Gods be good. Not even the East Aldenard Trading Company could amass a fortune great enough to purchase this,” he says, sloshing the juice with a shake of his hand. He laughs again, incredulous. “It’s priceless. And we’re going to drink it.”
“We’re going to drink it,” Solene agrees, feeling aglow with warmth at the sound of his laughter, the sight of that smile that feels more priceless to her by far. She rises from her seat and extends a hand to him. “Come on. We can enjoy this someplace where it won’t look as though I’m avoiding paying for drinks here—and you can tell me all about what you’ve been up to in my absence.”
There’s a wide stone balcony on one of the upper levels of the Stones that overlooks the Toll’s aetheryte plaza, the sparse crowds below appearing as little more than dark specks moving in the night. The sky above is a far better view, a tapestry of stars winking down at the pair of them, shining like diamonds scattered across a bed of midnight silk.
The night is warm, but the drink is refreshing and sweet. Before long, less than a third of the bottle remains as they recline against the stone, passing it back and forth between them. Solene firmly refuses to let her thoughts linger on the way G’raha’s mouth presses against the rim as he takes another drink. She glances away when he sets it down, a single ruby droplet clinging to the corner of his lip, his tongue darting out to catch it.
Stop, she tells herself, even as her gaze inevitably returns to him. But the warmth of his smile when he meets her eyes burns away whatever other admonishments the more disciplined part of her brain might’ve offered to her yearning heart.
“So tell me,” she starts, wrapping a hand around the neck of the bottle. She crosses her legs and peers down at the drink within. "How has it been, being back home?" She glances at him. "Are you happy?"
He blinks at her, slowly, his answer prompt. “Very much so. Words can scarcely describe the magnitude of joy I feel at being here. At this second chance you’ve granted me.”
She snorts. “Me? Please. It was your hard work that brought you here—that brought everyone home safe. Your efforts, your strength.”
“You carried us home, Solene,” he says, voice soft but firm. “And as for my strength…” He lifts his face to the sky, letting the balmy night breeze wash over him. His cheeks are faintly rosy. “Ever have I drawn it from you and yours. When you are by my side, I feel as though there is nothing I cannot do.”
Oh, she thinks, smiling at him, blood rushing in her ears at the way that he says such things that almost sound like confessions, if she didn’t know better. Her face warms with a blush that she’s grateful the dark will conceal. There is nothing I would not do for you.
“Flatterer,” is all she manages, bringing the bottle to her lips for another deep drink. She feels the quiet rumble of his answering laugh in her bones, low in her gut, in the acute ache of want within. But then she hears his breath catch, choked in his throat, and his hand comes down heavy on her own, pushing the drink away before she can swallow more than a sip.
She gapes at him, baffled—until he swallows hard and says, “Forgive me, I…” His voice trails off, the slight uneven cadence of it making her set the bottle down with a clink and lean towards him, brows furrowing.
“G’raha?”
“Do you feel odd?” G’raha blurts, staring at her with an intensity that makes the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Gooseflesh erupts on her bare arms, and she shakes her head, not comprehending. He withdraws his hand from her, running it through his bangs with an unsteady laugh, mussing the crimson locks. He glances at the bottle and frowns. “Suddenly I feel…”
Dread punches through her, knocking the breath from her lungs as she glances between him and the drink. “It’s just fruit in it,” she says, as much to herself as she does to him; there’s a horrid lurching in her chest, an old, old memory that she furiously tamps down, mind racing through the list of ingredients—ingredients that she’d gathered and mixed with her own two hands, this she knows. “Pixieberries, beet sugar, spring water—ah, a sprig of mint, but, it’s mostly berries. Are you—?”
“I do not feel ill,” he says, oddly wooden, as if trying to regain a balance that he’d lost. He can see the budding panic in her bright eyes. He reaches for her hand again, to pat it in reassurance. “I feel—”
Solene’s breath stutters in her throat, eyes flashing to where his palm settles atop hers—to where every nerve ending suddenly feels alight, acute heat searing through her veins, radiating from the point where his skin brushes against hers. They fly apart as though they’ve been burned, and she grips her own hand, face blazing.
Do you feel odd?
“What—” she huffs, drawing her knees up as if to shield herself from the incomprehensible effect of his touch; something within her goes taut as she shifts, her mind spinning and her skin flushed. Her heart beats a ceaseless, triphammer rhythm in her chest.
“Heart’s racing,” he says, as though he is merely observing the weather. For one horrifying moment, Solene wonders if he can somehow hear it—but through the muddled cacophony of her own mind, she realizes, as he presses a hand to his chest, that he’s only making note of the same sensation that’s afflicted him. Afflicted them both.
“You look feverish,” she mumbles, absently rubbing the back of her hand.
“As do you,” he says, his ears pinned flat to his skull. Together, they both turn to look at the abandoned bottle on the ground, the few onzes of drink left within taunting the pair of them.
“I feel…” she whispers, sinking her teeth into the plump swell of her bottom lip. Hot. Blazingly hot. Achingly hot. She shifts, hugging her knees, thighs squeezing against the hollow thrum of what she realizes is arousal curling low in her gut. Mortification blazes through her, and she groans. “Like an idiot. Oh, by the fucking Twelve.”
He smiles, though it ends up looking halfway to a grimace, his tail lashing anxiously behind him. “If it’s any consolation, I wouldn’t have thought the pixies would attempt to play one of their tricks on you.”
“Yes, well,” she huffs, pressing her palms to her cheeks in a vain attempt to cool herself. “Normally they don’t. And when they do, they’re obvious. But our dear Feo Ul is a cut above the rest.” She makes another pitiful sound. “Or—oh, gods—this wasn’t a trick. I don’t think they would trick us like this.”
G’raha winces, inclining his head to the bottle. “Pixies enjoy this drink often, you said?”
She sighs. “Yes,” she says dejectedly, picking up the bottle and corking it, staring at the offending liquid within. “When they revel. It makes them giddy. Feo Ul called it their favorite treat. The more I think on it, the more I think… perhaps it’s not a trick; perhaps it’s just—”
“Perhaps it impacts us and our mortal physiology… differently than that of the pixies and their arcane nature,” he finishes for her.
Her mouth twists. “Do you feel giddy?” she asks flatly, and he manages a strangled laugh.
“No,” he says, his gaze intense, pupils unusually fat. “Giddy… is not the word I would use.”
A shiver skitters down the length of Solene’s spine, and she swallows hard. She squeezes her thighs together again, biting back a whimper at the pulse of heat that ripples through her. G’raha’s eyes darken, nostrils flaring, and she tears her gaze from his and scrambles to her feet, wavering slightly when her legs prove weaker than she’d like.
Fuck, she thinks, acutely aware of the slickness between her thighs, the molten heat running languid in her veins, through every ilm of her body. She grits her teeth, crossing her arms over her chest, her nipples achingly hard and the brief friction of the motion soothing nothing. Fuck. She glances down at G’raha, still seated, hunched over. She screws her eyes shut and briefly considers flinging the bottle in her hand over the edge of the balcony.
“Come with me,” she mutters, offering her free hand to him. He stares up at it as though she’s holding out a knife blade-first. She sighs and beckons him. “We should go inside and… figure something out. A solution.” He hesitates for a long moment before reaching for her, letting her pull him to his feet—and the rough slide of his calloused palm against hers practically turns her knees to water. “And fast.”
Neither of them says another word until they’re stumbling through the halls where the Scions’ personal quarters are located. For a mercy, they appear to be the only two around. “Perhaps we should ask one of our comrades for help,” G’raha offers weakly, following behind.
“Gods,” Solene hisses, clapping a hand over her brow. “That sounds horrific, but maybe—who?” She racks her brain for a moment; she would die before she let the twins hear of this, Thancred would think this predicament hilarious, Tataru wouldn't poke fun at them but would likely need to consult other people for a viable solution, which would defeat the purpose of her desire to keep the number of those who would know about this down to the barest minimum.
“Y’shtola?” G’raha whispers, and she whirls around to stare down at him, gasping.
“No,” she whispers back, granted relief from the ache of want thrumming through her body for as long as it takes pure dread to swell in her breast at the thought. “We would never hear the end of it.” She pauses then, considering. “Though—oh! Aren’t there tonics that Miqo’te can take for…?”
He grimaces. “Yes, but it’s… This isn’t an estrus cycle brought about by natural hormone production, this is… an effect of consuming an aphrodisiac, so to speak. If there were a tonic we could consume to counteract it, it would need to be tailor made and tested. And we—”
“—don’t have time for that,” she finishes for him, huffing dejectedly. Her face flames at his words. An aphrodisiac. By the Twelve, she thinks, May the ground open up and swallow me whole.
“Urianger?” he offers as they walk on, without the severe apprehension that he’d said Y’shtola’s name with. But Solene pulls a face over her shoulder at him.
“I think Urianger has dealt with enough secrets on our behalf,” she says. Her mouth twists. “I also think he'd consult Y'shtola. Maybe… Krile?”
“No,” G’raha breathes, ears flat and tail bristled. “For the same reason we cannot tell Y’shtola.”
Solene stops short at the far end of the hall, just shy of her own quarters. She turns and slumps against the wall, the cool surface offering little relief for the heat coursing through her. The near-empty bottle clinks against the stone. She sighs, head bowed, the silvered ends of her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, crouching in her field of vision. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he says, running a hand through his untidy hair. His face remains heavily flushed, sweat beading on his brow. “‘Twas pure accident.” The corner of his mouth quirks upward, and he adds, “And as a result, I remain undefeated, for the Bi Fang quill.”
“Arsehole,” Solene laughs, clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound lest she draw attention. His eyes glitter with mirth. She forces herself to look away, wary of losing her wits to their ruby depths and forgetting herself—forgetting to fight back against the thrill of desire that sings in her blood when he smiles at her. She shoos him, saying, “Go on, then, since my apology is no good. So long as you truly aren’t cross with me for this absolute catastrophe of a gift.”
“I could never be,” he says, rising once more. His ears flick curiously. “Though I can see you’ve tired of my company.”
“Hardly,” she mumbles, tucking a lock of hair behind one tapered ear. “But I think the best we might be able do for now is wait this out in the privacy of our rooms.”
He hesitates for a moment, prompting a questioning glance from her. He shrugs, staring intently at his own hands as he fiddles with the straps of one bracer. “What if… What if other effects manifest from the drink?” he asks.
She blinks down at him, mouth going dry. Don’t, don’t, her addled mind chants, though it’s obscured in a heavy fog of desire. It would be safer if they parted ways for the night—it would be less mortifying to let this inadvertent, potent philter run its course in the privacy that solitude would afford them both.
And yet… his words prod at a kernel of doubt within her mind. She turns the thought over, considering. “Would you… Would you be comfortable remaining together?” she asks. And then, hastily added, “Just in case there are further… symptoms, so to speak?”
His pulse jumps in his neck, a rapid flutter under the dark indigo Archon marks tattooed on his flesh. “I would worry for you otherwise,” he says softly. His throat bobs in a hard swallow. “We are… good friends, are we not?”
It’s a lifeline—an opportunity—that she shouldn’t latch on to. But she does, and she tells herself it’s the drink that makes her seize it.
“We are,” she says, voice low. “There’s hardly anyone in the world I trust more than you, G’raha. If it wouldn’t trouble you…”
He shrugs, his smile taut but sincerity shining in his eyes. “What’s a little trouble between friends?”
Solene bites back a smile. “If you’re sure,” she says, and when he nods, the little seed of doubt crumbles to dust. Nerves dance in her belly, but not from the sour, curdled feeling of worry. No, this feeling treads a line perilously close to something like anticipation. “Go dress for sleep, then. Be comfortable—though I doubt we’ll find rest anytime soon,” she says. Her palm presses flat against the door to her quarters beside her. “I’ll leave the door unlocked.”
“Alright,” he murmurs, eyes dark. His pupils remain fat, and the weight of his gaze lingers like the ghost of a caress even after he turns away to make for his room.
In the privacy of her own quarters, brief as it is, nothing affords her respite from the dull ache of arousal within her. She strips off all her daywear and slips into a shapeless, thick nightshirt that elicits a shiver as the fabric scrapes against her oversensitive skin, against the tight pucker of her nipples. She grits her teeth and darts into the bathroom, running the faucet and splashing cool water against her ruddy cheeks—but when she scrutinizes herself in the looking glass, the flush on her skin hasn’t abated in the slightest, and her gaze remains foggy, lust-drunk and pupils blown.
Solene huffs, dragging a hand down her face, clenching her thighs against the hollow ache of nothing between them. She braces one hand against the sink, the other tentatively slipping down to cup her sex—and then moans softly when it's not enough, pressing firmer, more insistently, rocking against her palm—
And then the click of the latch on the door to her quarters reaches her ears, and she nearly whines, gritting her teeth and gripping the edges of the basin white-knuckle tight. She doesn’t have time to regret her choices before G’raha’s uncertain voice reaches her ears, calling for her. “I’m here,” she responds, padding out of the bathroom.
G’raha closes the door behind him, the sound of it abnormally loud in the silence that balloons between them. Solene’s gaze lingers on the long, crimson spill of his hair, the barest shadow of stubble on his tense jaw, the divot of his collarbone peeking out from beneath the loose neck of his plain cotton tunic.
He is indeed dressed comfortably, hands tucked in the pockets of his soft trousers to keep from fidgeting. But his gaze remains heated, bright spots of color high on his cheeks, and though he looks ready for bed, it’s clear that sleep is the furthest thing from either of their minds.
Solene drops onto the edge of her mattress with a huff, scooting until her back hits the wall. She tucks her long legs underneath her, dragging the blanket over her lap before gesturing widely to the empty space beside her. “Come on then,” she says, and she tries not to smile wryly at the faint panic rising in G’raha’s fevered gaze. “You’re not going to just stand there all night,” she says. “Gods willing, this will wear off in a few bells at most and we can sleep.”
He swallows hard, settling gingerly onto the foot of the bed, as much distance between them as there can be. His gaze darts to the nightstand, to the bottle that holds what remains of the source of their troubles this night.
"On my honor as a Scion, I swear not to poison us next time," she remarks, frowning at it.
His laugh is rough, ears fluttering. "It was hardly a poison," he says, bracing his hands back against the bed. "And if it had been, well. I've had things much better for my health that tasted far worse."
"Chessamile and her tonics," Solene mutters, grinning at the memory. She snorts. "I bet she could concoct something to put an end to our troubles, were it possible."
G'raha nods, smiling fondly. "Of that, I have no doubt. Though it would taste like death itself."
"Small price to pay."
His expression softens. "It isn't that bad, is it, Solene?" he asks.
She blinks, skin prickling with low-burning heat at the sound of her name spoken in such a gentle tone. She fists her hands in the sheets. "Isn't it?" she asks, half afraid of the answer—half afraid that he'll change his mind, take it back.
But his gaze remains steady, despite the haze of artificial lust that lingers within. "Physical discomfort aside, I've endured far worse than inadvertently sharing an aphrodisiac with a beautiful woman," he says, and her heart jumps.
She clears her throat, pressing a hand to her face. She laughs unsteadily, bashful, cheeks blazing. Beautiful, she thinks, sinking against the wall, flushing deeper, undeniably pleased. He called me beautiful.
"Well," she starts after a long moment. Her fingers twist in the sheets. "We've both known worse, then. Though I'm sorry for your discomfort. Would that I could help," she says, clenching her thighs, hot and sticky with arousal. She sinks her teeth into the meat of her lower lip.
G'raha's breath catches, hands flexing in the sheets for a moment before he grimaces and drags the end of the blanket over his lap. Solene is certain that her face can't get any redder, though her heart speeds, thunderous beating in her ears.
"Kind of you to say," he grits out, pulse leaping in his throat. He huffs a wry breath of laughter. "Though I would never… never ask such a thing of you."
Never. A neat lance of hurt spears through the haze of arousal. And the sound it pulls from her—small, wounded—would be inaudible to anyone with less keen senses, but it draws his attention. Whatever he sees on her face, it makes horror dawn on his features.
"I didn't—I didn't mean it like that," he stammers, flushing deeper. He nearly reaches for her shoulder but freezes midway, staring at the space between them.
"You need not spare my feelings, G'raha," she manages, as kindly as she can. She's caught between the lingering hurt and the insistent ache between her legs, the futile wish that he would close the distance between them. Touch me, her addled mind silently pleas. Touch me, G'raha, please touch me.
And then, ever so slowly, he does. His hand comes down gently upon her shoulder, and though her nightdress is a barrier between their skin, it suddenly seems pitifully flimsy. Warmth blooms under his palm, a burgeoning sensation that flows like sweet honey in her veins—that somehow tethers this chaste touch directly to her cunt, an aching pulse of need fluttering through her.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, voice low. It rumbles over every live nerve ending in her body, eliciting the barest shiver. His eyes darken. “I only meant… that you are a dear friend. And it would be remiss of me to take advantage of that. I would never wish to trouble you so.”
The words are undeniably sweet. Considerate. That of a perfect gentleman, and utterly terrible, because—
—she wants him to take advantage. Wants to be troubled so. She can barely breathe, can barely think of anything else. It burns within, so painfully hot underneath her skin, has her feeling ripe to bursting with blistering need.
Her own voice sounds foreign in her ears, soft and slinking. “What’s a little trouble between friends?”
G’raha stares at her for a long moment. “Solene,” he says, and it sounds caught halfway between a warning—and a plea.
It’s the drink, the drink, she thinks, shrugging. “You are my friend,” she says softly, gaze unwavering. “And I am yours.” His fingers flex on her shoulder, and she swallows hard. “I trust you with my life. And this certainly isn’t life or death,” she laughs. “It’s just… Just the drink. It’s the drink making us feel this way.”
Liar.
She can see his mind working, can see him carefully turning over each word within—and his hand remains on her shoulder. And when she shifts, edging just a little closer to him, he stares at her with something that she could almost mistake for hope in his fever-bright eyes. “If you wished to simply… wait this out…” he says, carefully. “I would not protest.”
Something hangs on the end of his words. “...But?” she prods gently.
The apple of his throat bobs in a hard swallow. He takes a bracing breath, tail lashing nervously behind him. “But if you wished… to… seek relief from this situation we find ourselves in, so to speak,” he says, clearing his throat. His face burns, and she feels as though she’s poised on the thin line of a tightrope, desperately trying to keep her balance. “That is… also an option. After all, this sensation is… it’s only due to the drink.”
“The drink,” she affirms, wetting her lips, pretending she hadn’t felt this way long before that first, sweet sip. A beat passes, every muscle in her body drawn taut like a bowstring. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“No,” he says, the word catching on a breath of laughter. His irises are a thin ruby ring around the deep black of his dilated pupils. “It’s you. I wouldn’t mind.”
There’s a long moment of fraught silence between them, where neither can bring themselves to move. It’s all Solene can manage to simply draw breath, hands fisted tense in the hem of her nightshirt, eyes wide and unblinking, white-hot. I could do it, she thinks, gaze on his mouth, on the hard line of his jaw, the tender slope of his neck. She could fit herself to him. Press her lips to his, feel the shadow of his stubble rasp against her skin. Drag her teeth down the tendon in his neck and—and—
G’raha’s hand leaves her shoulder, his fingers trailing a line from the ridge of her clavicle to her throat, across smooth, brown skin. Then further up. Along the soft jut of her jaw, and then a little more, to where the rough pad of his thumb settles just on the corner of her red mouth.
“Would you mind, Solene?” he asks, staring up at her with something she could almost mistake for desperation. Or perhaps it is desperation, compelled by the drink, and he need not know that the matching burn of it within her had existed well before this night.
“I wouldn’t mind,” she whispers, shifting closer—heart thrilling when he leans toward her. I want you, want this, want it so much, she thinks. “I trust you,” is all she says.
His gaze is blood-dark. “You—” he starts, and then stills, shaking his head. There’s a wry twist to his smile, but whatever he’d intended to say is lost. His thumb alights gently on the soft swell of her bottom lip, a touch that she feels in her cunt, a flicker of heat—and she can’t say who moves first to close the distance.
He’s gentle. An almost tentative press of his mouth to hers, plush-soft and warm and so achingly tender as they kiss that she feels dizzy from it, sensation gone straight to her head. It’s everything she’d dreamed. It’s better than she’d dreamed. And when he thumbs her chin, a silent push to open for him, to welcome the slick touch of his tongue to hers—
She moans embarrassingly loud in the silence. She winces and draws back just enough to press her fingers to her mouth, his lips brushing the backs of her knuckles. Levinsparks skitter along her nerves at the motion. He blinks at her, slowly, hazy-eyed and breathing heavy.
“It’s alright,” he says, taking her hand, pulling it down to twine their fingers together. She shivers, and she watches the same sensation tremble through him, his brow knitting as he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. When he looks at her again, there’s such hunger there, unmistakable. “Believe me, Solene,” he says, their lips brushing once again. “It’s a flattery like no other.”
"Oh," she breathes, feeling the corner of his mouth rise with the faintest hint of that striking smile. She kisses him without thought, then, deeply and eager. The glide of his tongue against hers elicits breathy, needful sounds, and at last—at last, the acute pain of the ache between her thighs begins to soothe, her hunger feeding on these morsels of his touch, the taste of him, the delicious, warm and woody scent of him invading her senses.
She needs more. If she has until the drink’s effects leave her system to indulge herself—or until they’re satiated at last, free of their aching arousal and bereft of energy to do anything more—then she will simply have to take as much as he’ll let her have.
And oh, she can have it, just for tonight, just for now. Him in her bed, in her arms, in her body. Just once. Just this one night, and then—then, she'll be satisfied. She'll be content. She'll still have his friendship, still have a place by his side, she won't lose him again—
—and the memory of it will be enough for her.
“Is this alright?” she asks, a fevered mumble against his mouth; she feels him nod, feels his answering groan rumble through her, and whines. More. More. She fists a hand in the crimson spill of his hair, settling his own hand firmly against the swell of her hip.
He shudders, grip tightening on her, sending lazy heat blooming down the curve of her spine. “Yes,” he whispers, hand flexing; he moans softly and bows his head, burying his face into the junction of her shoulder and breathing deep. “Are you alright?” he asks, pressing the words into her skin, the warmth seeping into her very blood pumping hot through her.
“Yes,” she insists, nodding, cunt clenching and nipples taut at the delicious scrape of his stubble against her. Every sensation is magnified, even the most chaste of touches feeling so unbearably erotic that she squirms, seeking friction. “I want more,” she gasps aloud, rising up onto her knees—a low sound of satisfaction escaping when he drags her onto his lap, against the hard line of the erection there is no longer any point to concealing.
He fumbles with the hem of her nightshirt before rucking it up to her thighs—and she jerks in his lap when he slips a hand underneath, palm shakily pressed to her bare, aching cunt. “Gods,” he hisses, stiffening. An awed breath leaves him. “You’re so wet.”
Her laugh is a delirious thing; she’s burning, feeling afire, hips rolling into his hand as he glides an exploratory touch through the thatch of coarse hair on her mons, down to her blush-dark folds, spreading her open. She wraps her arms around him, and he muffles a moan into her chest, nuzzling at her breasts as he sinks one thick finger in knuckle-deep, and then another. She clenches on him, gasping.
“Gods,” he says again, shakily, valiantly seeking composure and finding very little, if any. He mouths at her, teeth scraping and tongue dragging damp spots over the fabric of her nightshirt as she rocks on his hand. “Solene… Oh, you feel so…”
“Good,” she moans, answering for herself rather than for him. She feels a shudder ripple through him, held fast to her as he is. She whispers his name, feels his free hand settle at the small of her back, his bracing touch a brand she wants on every ilm of her bare skin.
“Can I look at you?” G'raha asks softly. His nose skims along the swell of her breast, warm breath ghosting against the clothed peak of her nipple. “Can I…?” he breathes—and then seals his mouth over her, biting down until she cries out.
"Yes," she says, rising up on her knees, bracing herself on his broad shoulders. His hands withdraw from her, leaving her bereft at the loss of his touch—but his eyes blaze with heat as he takes the hem of her nightshirt in hand and steadily drags it up and off, baring her to his sight.
His expression slackens, so utterly replete with adoration that Solene flushes with pride, biting back a smile. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to the underside of one breast, tonguing the tender crease of skin. She fists a hand in his hair as he palms the other, circling the dusky nipple with his thumb. It’s sensual, wonderful—but it’s the wet pull of his mouth when he suckles her, the harsh nip of his teeth when he marks her, that makes her quiver.
He muffles a desperate, animalistic moan against her breast, a fine tremor running through him—as though it’s almost too much for him, never mind her. “That’s good,” she murmurs, carding a hand through his hair, fingers scraping against the base of a russet ear. She’s not prepared for the way he jerks under her, a sharp whine caught in his throat when he releases her and frantically cups his own clothed cock. She stills, something a few shades darker, more wicked, unfurling in her chest; it’s in her voice when she asks, “Did you just—?”
“No.” His face is so red it looks painful. He huffs, every muscle in his body tight, trembling. “No,” he says again, a touch wry. “But I’m—gods—I’m young again, and I certainly feel it.”
Solene grins, a soothing hand upon his cheek, feeling the warmth burning underneath. “I don’t mind,” she murmurs, reaching for his shirt, tugging it over his head when he obediently raises his arms and discarding it over the side of the bed.
“I mind,” he says, a shudder rolling through him when she lays her palm against his broad chest, against sparse red hair and freckled skin. She stifles a sigh, relishing the feel of him—the pliance of mortal flesh. She can feel his heart beating underneath—powerful, rapid, an even match for the tempo of her own. He smiles, eyes glittering like jewels. “I should not like this to be over quite so soon.”
Careful, she thinks, letting him lay her back against the bed. The sheets are cool against her fevered skin, but she arches towards the heat of his mouth peppering silk-soft kisses along the length of her body. His tongue traces the line of an old scar along her abdomen, and she moans. A girl could get ideas when you say that.
“G’raha,” she murmurs, as he hitches her thigh over his shoulder. His calloused palms slide between, spreading her legs, opening her to his view. In the haze of lust clouding her senses—the drink amplifying all sensation, her need kindled to a scorching blaze—she wonders, for a moment, if she might be dreaming. “G’raha,” she whispers again, just to be sure he’s real.
He pauses, glancing up at her, pinning her with the intensity of his crimson gaze. "I think, considering our circumstances," he starts, thumbs idly tracing patterns on her. "You could… call me by my given name." He swallows hard, a faint flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. "If you like."
She rises up on her elbows, staring down at him with wonderment in her bright eyes. Something swells in her heart, light as air, and she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning like a fool. "Can I?" she breathes.
He nods, the ever-present flush on his face deepening until he can't meet her gaze any longer. “‘Tis a familiarity afforded to close friends,” he says softly. “And we are close, are we not?” He bows his head, pressing his cheek to her inner thigh, ears fluttering. His breath ghosts hot on the folds of her cunt, and he strokes a teasing finger over the glistening bud of her clit.
She twitches under him, a needy sound catching in her throat. "Raha," she says—and he draws a sharp breath, tensing. He touches her again, more deliberately, circling that little nub with the rough pad of his thumb. And then he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to it, and she gasps, rocking toward that mouth, the chasteness of that action feeling wickedly, unbearably good. “Raha.”
He moans, the barest whisper of sound, his hips flexing against the bed. “Gods, that’s—” he mutters, and then licks a wet stripe up her cunt that has her whining for more. “I used to imagine you saying my name often, Solene,” he admits, eyes glinting. “But hearing you say it like that…”
She thinks of making a point to say it often, then, the same way she’d done back in the First, once she’d realized what it did to him to hear it. She wonders if it will elicit the same reaction from him—if he’ll glance away from her, fighting and failing to conceal a blush dusting his cheeks and the bright gleam of joy in his eyes. Or perhaps, she thinks, a wild thrill dancing through her, he’ll think of this.
But then G’raha puts his mouth to her again, lapping at her with single-minded purpose, and every thought flies from her head. She sinks back against the sheets, gasping, eyes fluttering shut as she loses herself to the sensation.
She’s dreamed of this. Dreamed of how it would feel, spread under him with his large hands gripping her thighs, his face buried in her cunt. But nothing compares to this heady reality; she fists her hands in the sheets and writhes, can't keep still under the delicious drag of his tongue. He feasts on her like he's ravenous, makes rough, animal sounds that vibrate through her as though it's all in service to his pleasure and not hers.
She's intoxicated. Arching against him, she feels every muscle drawing taut like a bowstring, feels sweet release building, cresting to a steady peak. She cards a hand through his hair and hears him moan, and the sound spurs her on—has her forcing him against her until he relaxes his jaw so she can roll her hips and fuck that pretty mouth, and she doesn't care—
—doesn't care that this is only happening because of the drink—
—doesn't care that things will be as if this never happened in the cold light of day—
—because it doesn't matter right now, now, when she's overwrought, keening his name, over and over, and crying, "Coming, oh gods—Raha, I'm coming for you."
The sound he makes is so soft and desperate that it sends her over the edge, into the most powerful orgasm she's ever had, all of the tension melting into bliss so exquisite that she goes numb with it. Her cries are incoherent, the stinging bite of G'raha's nails digging into her thighs the only thing that anchors her. He slows, gentling his attentions until he only mouths at her, soothing her down from the high until she's limp in the sheets, trembling and boneless.
"You're beautiful, Solene," he whispers against her skin, so quietly she almost doesn't hear it through the haze of pleasure.
"That so?" she murmurs, voice thick. His ears jolt, and the expression on his face when he glances up at her makes her wonder if he'd intended to say it aloud at all. Oh, she thinks, heart thundering in her chest. She reaches weakly for him and murmurs, “Come here.”
He obeys, rising over her and dotting open-mouthed kisses along the length of her body, until he cups her breasts in his hands and sucks a dusky nipple into his mouth with a pleased sigh. She shudders, oversensitive, clutching at his shoulders but not wanting him to stop. She likes his passionate attention, likes that he seems so overcome with her that he can’t help from touching, tasting, from sinking his teeth into her tender flesh and watching her hungrily, eager to see what sounds he can pull from her in response.
Her hands settle on his waist, and together they fumble at his remaining clothing with shaky fingers until they manage to drag them down his hips—until he kicks them off and is finally bared to her sight. He looks so hard it’s painful, the proud jut of his erection a livid red at the tip. He cups himself briefly and winces, and she sinks her teeth into the meat of her lower lip and reaches for him.
“Can I?” she asks, softly. He nods wordlessly, and then lets out a shaky breath when her slender fingers encircle his shaft. His cock jerks in her grasp, slit weeping, and an answering thrill pulses through her, has her whispering a breathy, “Oh.”
She pumps him gently, knowing from the fine tremor running through his body and the way his expression pinches with tension that he’s already unbearably close. Slow, sensual strokes from base to tip, just enjoying the velvet feel of him until she thumbs the glans on an upstroke and he nearly whines, one hand latching onto her wrist and the other onto her breast, plucking harshly at a nipple as he hisses, “Oh, not yet—I’m close, Solene—”
She grins, looking like a coeurl that's caught prey. "I've an idea," she says, nodding toward the nightstand. "There's a small, purple bottle in the top drawer." She releases his cock, which makes him groan, and asks, "Would you fetch it for me, Raha?"
It's oil. Her own make, shimmering clear and with the faintest hint of floral fragrance as she dribbles a small amount into her palm. She sets the bottle down and lays flat against the bed, watching his expression slacken when she slicks both hands and then cups her breasts.
"Beautiful," G'raha says again, but it's clear from the heavy-lidded hunger in his eyes, the rough timbre of his voice, that he means her to hear it this time.
She smiles, the world gone hazy at the edges from the erotic thrill of her own palms smoothing over the tender, love-bitten tips of her nipples until she glistens. "Come here," she says, beckoning him until he sits astride her, until the thick, hard length of his cock is nestled snugly between her breasts.
"Gods," he whispers, a hand on the plump swell of one, the other on her shoulder, hips flexing experimentally. He gasps at the easy slide, a smear of spend streaked across her skin from the dripping head, and he begins to thrust in a steady, rolling rhythm. "Fuck."
Solene lets out a breathy, satisfied sound at the oath. "Good?" she asks, pressing her breasts together, mimicking the tight squeeze of a cunt as best she can.
He moans, the sound guttural, head bowed and eyes unfocused, lashes fluttering. "So good," he slurs, and she cranes her neck and opens her mouth, watching heat flare in his crimson gaze when the tip of his cock kisses the flat of her tongue.
G'raha's hips stutter, face contorting with a snarl of pleasure. He cups her cheek tenderly, an action at odds with the rough way he hooks his thumb in her mouth, feeling her moan, watching his cockhead slide on her tongue over and over again. “Where do you want it?” he asks, strangled. He makes her open wider, gasping, “Here?”
She flushes deep, a rush of scarlet blooming down her neck, her chest—and nods. He spills a bit on her tongue, bitter salt, achingly close.
His gaze trails down to her breasts, watching them bounce with every rough thrust, giving one dark nipple a harsh twist that makes her cry out, makes his snarl deepen, a savage pleasure alight in his eyes. “Or here?” he asks.
Solene watches him through heavy-lidded eyes, glazed and silvery with want. “Yes,” she gasps. “Everywhere. I want it everywhere, Raha.”
His eyes roll back, then, hips faltering in their rhythm as he grips the base of his cock and furiously pumps himself—and she feels his balls draw up, his mouth dropping open in a soundless cry as he comes, hot ropes of spend shot on her tongue, her chin, across the gloss of her breasts. He holds himself against her until the last drops pool on her skin, milky against umber, and he trembles and lets out a long, shuddering moan that sinks bliss into her very bones.
His weight leaves her as he collapses beside her with a soft thump, another heavy breath huffing out of him. She smiles dreamily at the ceiling, the golden glow of lamplight blurring as her eyes flutter shut. The burning prickle of need, of aching heat demanding relief, has been sated into a languid, honeyed warmth in her veins. “Feeling alright?” she mumbles, ears pricking at G’raha’s gasping breaths.
His hand finds hers in the sheets, twining their fingers together. “Feeling wonderful,” he says, voice muffled in a pillow. He sounds every bit as satisfied as she feels, and she can’t help but grin even as her eyes struggle to remain open.
“Giddy, even?” she asks, and his warm, rough laugh in response is the last thing she recalls before the drowsiness claims her.
Solene wakes to a dark room, a calloused palm gently smoothing down the curve of her spine being the first thing she registers. Raha, her mind supplies, steadily regaining awareness; she’s reclined on her side, G’raha a warm, solid presence at her back, thin blanket pulled over them. She shifts, running a hand down her front, finding herself dry and clean.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice raspy from sleep. His answering chuckle against her ear rumbles through her.
“‘Twas no trouble,” he says, taking her meaning. His hand stills on her back for a long moment—as if he wonders whether it’s right, now, without manufactured arousal spurring on the need for touch—but after awhile, he resumes caressing her.
Her heart skips in her chest. “Ever a gentleman,” she says, a smile in her voice.
He snorts quietly. “I certainly didn’t feel gentlemanly at the end, there,” he quips, pulling a sharp laugh from her. She feels him shift closer, head bent, mouth pressing a smile into the curve of her shoulder.
“Well I assure you, I very much enjoyed it,” she says, a flush creeping across her face. It’s alright, she thinks, trying to calm her heart. Her eyes drift to the timepiece on the far wall, barely visible in moonlight faintly filtered in through the window. It's a few bells until sunrise yet, and she tells herself again, It’s alright to have this for just a little while longer.
“I’m glad,” he murmurs, and after a beat, his arm comes to rest over the swell of her hip. "I did, too."
She swallows hard. “You stayed,” she says after a long moment. She screws her eyes shut, feeling her face heat further.
His gentle touch pauses again. “Should I not have?” he asks quietly, a small hurt barely restrained in his voice.
She turns immediately, bringing them face-to-face. His crimson eyes are aglow in the dark, a rich ruby sheen and slit pupils no longer blown wide with lust. Her heart seizes in her chest, a brief shock of worry through her— Gods, she thinks, what a lack of liquid courage can do. A terrible irony, that the Warrior of Light finds her sense of fear when it comes to honesty in matters of the heart—in words that she can’t blame the drink for.
“I’m glad that you did,” she manages at last. She touches a hand to his jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble against her palm. “I like… having you near.” She smiles, hoping it looks steadier than she feels. “Raha.”
He looks at her then the same way he’d looked at her back on the First—back when he’d revealed his face to her and professed deepest admiration. As though he'd looked to the endless expanse of the sunless sea and found the brightest star within her. As though there is no other worthy of his sight, and never will be. His arm settles around her again, hand alighting at the small of her back, fingers splayed across the dip of her spine. His tail drapes gently over her thigh. She shivers, and his gaze warms.
“Solene,” he murmurs, and then kisses her. The gentlest brush of his mouth to hers—affording her the opportunity to stop, to pull away, if she so wishes. And for a moment, she’s held still, eyes fluttering shut as she basks in the tenderness of it.
And then she does draw back, but with a hand on his shoulder to tug at him, to guide him up with her as she twists in his arms and sits up against the headboard. She meets his curious gaze with an almost bashful one, peeking at him through the dark sweep of her lashes as she reaches for the long, glass bottle on the nightstand. He blinks, surprised, when she holds it between them, a few onzes of ruby liquid sloshing within.
Her fingers tighten apprehensively on the neck, and it’s painfully difficult to meet his gaze, but she holds it anyway. “Feel free to turn down the offer,” she starts lightly, drawing her knees up. “But… Well. The effect wasn’t unbearable.” She ducks her head, then. “For me, at least. And I wonder if, perhaps, it would be a shame to… to waste the rest.” She stares at the bottle, turning it over in her hands and clearing her throat. “Though I can pour it down the drain if you wish,” she finishes quickly.
G'raha's hand comes down on the top of her knee, touch warm even through the blanket. And when she looks at him, a small spark of interest flares in his eyes, mouth quirked in a faint smile.
"You don't have to pour it down the drain," he says, voice low. It's as if they share a secret, heads bowed together, blanketed in the quiet of night. "It would be a shame, to waste a priceless gift. And I assure you, Solene," he adds, eyes glinting. "I didn't find it unbearable either."
Solene uncorks the bottle, a coy smile playing about her lips as she raises it to drink. His eyes darken as he watches her mouth seal on the rim, as she takes long pulls from the bottle. She offers it to him—and his thumb presses on the corner of her mouth, lightly sweeping the glistening plumpness of her bottom lip.
He takes the bottle in hand, but not before he kisses her again, with intent, sucking the sweet juice off her skin. She moans quietly, carding her hand through his hair.
He draws back just enough to tip the bottle to his lips, his eyes on her as he drains it dry. And though the drink doesn't take effect so quickly, Solene wonders with eagerness if she can still take the liberty of leaning in and running her tongue across the flutter of his pulse in his neck. G'raha doesn't seem to mind when she does, his pleased groan rumbling under her mouth, the clink of him setting the bottle on the nightstand ringing in the quiet.
It's alright, she thinks as he trails a hand up her side and cups her breast, rolling the taut bud of her nipple between his fingers. I can have it, she thinks, blunt nails scraping across the sparse smattering of hair on his broad chest as he kisses her again, filthily, all tongue and teeth. Just once more.
He's already hard when she takes him in hand, hot and satiny smooth under the gentle glide of her touch. He groans, trailing kisses down the length of her neck, to the junction of her shoulder where he drags his teeth over her skin and bites down. She moans sharply, and his cock twitches in her grasp.
"Like that, do you?" she murmurs, quivering as he sucks a bruise into her skin—liking it far too much herself to stop him. The idea of seeing the dark blossom of a mark—his mark—on her makes her gut clench with arousal, slickness between her thighs.
"You've no idea," he growls, nosing at her, laving at the lovebite with his tongue and feeling her shudder. "Your voice, Solene, those sounds…" He breathes harsh against her, and she can feel him hardening further in her grasp. "I've dreamed of them. Of fucking them out of you."
Her eyes flutter shut as she melts against him, wicked pleasure burning through her at the obscenity of his confession. She feels shameless, and whether it's the drink blurring the boundary of her inhibitions or his open admittance to wanting her outside of this, she isn't certain. She doesn't know if she needs to be certain anymore.
“Believe me,” she says, “I’m intimately familiar with the feeling.”
What are you doing, Solene? A brief panic wells in the back of her mind, the instinct of self-preservation hissing at her that she reveals too much. But the gemshine glow of heat in his eyes, the way raw need paints itself across his features, counters that it’s alright. That it’s safe.
That at the heart of this storm—hot, heavy breaths, desire scorching every nerve, burning the both of them up from within with the drive to touch, taste, fuck—
—that she has ever been safe with him.
She pushes G’raha back down into the sheets with a strength that makes his eyes go wide, ears flicking as he expels a sharp breath. He props himself up on his elbows as she slides down his body, kneeling between his legs and tucking a long, half-silvered curl of hair behind her ear. His belly quivers, hard planes of muscle flinching as she runs a finger down to the thatch of wiry crimson hair nestled at the base of his erection. Her touch runs along the tip, smearing a bead of come into the blush-dark flesh, then over the glans. He jerks at the sensation.
She peeks at him through her lashes as she grips him at the base and leans down, pressing her tongue to the same spot.
“Solene.” Her name comes out as a low growl, his hand brushing back the thick locks of her hair, so he can see every ilm of his cock disappearing into her mouth as she opens wide and takes him to the hilt. He moans, head falling back, the sound of his bliss loud in the quiet of night.
He’s so wonderfully thick in her mouth, pulsing on her tongue as she sucks him that it makes her wetter, has her whimpering and slipping her free hand between her legs. She lets out a low hum of pure relief as she rubs at the swollen bud of her clit, so slick that it’s audible under the wet suction of her mouth on his cock. He gasps, and she tastes salt in the back of her throat.
“Gods, you—like it,” he mumbles, shaking with the effort of not thrusting up into her; his hand trembles on the crown of her head. He flushes deeply, his eyes lust-drunk and pupils blown wide, nostrils flaring. “I can smell it.”
She moans, squeezing him at the base so tightly that he responds in kind, his breath quickening. She cups his sac, fingers glistening with her own arousal as she fondles him. The sounds he makes sharpen, his thighs quivering on either side of her. Arousal burns hot and low, aching, and she fixates on the need to make him feel it—to render him insensate, gasping, crying, coming helplessly in her.
A dark desire blooms within her, and she reaches lower, fingers hooking around to massage the tender patch of skin behind his balls. He jerks, then, tail lashing violently against the bed and his cock nearly hitting the back of her throat, gagging her. “Gods, I’m—I’m sorry—” he babbles as she draws off the length of him with a wet pop.
His hips stutter, and her fingers continue their gentle exploration. “It’s alright,” she soothes. She strokes him a little more firmly, and he groans. “Is this alright, Raha?”
“Yes,” he gasps, eyes fever-bright. “Gods, yes—oh—that feels…”
“Do you want more?” she offers, another sweep of deliberate touch—even lower, now, gently circling the tight pucker of his arse.
His mouth drops open, soundless, but pure desperation writ across his face. He nods wordlessly, melting into the mattress when she gives his cock a final squeeze and withdraws from him, reaching for the little bottle of oil still on the nightstand. She uses more than before to ease the way, until her fingers are shimmery and dripping.
She settles down between his legs again, one hand returning to his cock as she nudges at his thigh and says, “Open for me, Raha.”
His breath shudders from him as he obeys, watching her with hazy eyes as she sucks a droplet of come leaking from the tip of him, laving the blunt head with her tongue. Teasing him as her free hand slips lower, lower, until her glossy fingers gently probe the tight ring of muscle between his cheeks. She glances up at him, gauging his reaction, finding only burning need in his expression.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she says softly.
“I don’t,” he grits out, thrusting reflexively; the head of his cock bumps against her lips, smearing a milky drop of seed.
She smiles, taking in his cock to the root, tongue working against the length of him—and she pushes past resistance, slipping a single finger in his arse. A breath chokes off in his throat, a gravely moan rumbling through him that ends soft, almost a whine. It sends a spear of arousal piercing deep, has her rocking against nothing but air as she bobs on his cock and gently pumps through the tight clench of him. His hand flexes, pressing tentatively on the dark crown of her hair.
She sighs on him, an affirmation as he thrusts once, carefully—and then again when she doesn’t protest, another agonized breath in his lungs as he rocks against her, short motions that feel no less wonderful for it. She can tell by the way he swells in her mouth, throbbing as she sucks, as she drools on him, letting it dribble out of her to smooth the glide of him past her lips.
She adds another finger to the first, a gentle rhythm as she works him—and G’raha fists his hand in her hair, a strangled gasp of her name in the silence. “Fuck,” he hisses, trembling, clenching on her. She strokes him through it, fingers crooking, and he arches. “Oh, please—Solene—”
She lets out a breathy, blissful sound, free hand on his muscled thigh as if to steady herself. It’s so good—feels so good, the desperate noises he makes, the way he rolls his hips, fucks her mouth. The scent of him, woody warmth and faint musk, and the barest hint of something floral from the oil. The clench of him on her fingers, so hot and tight and hers, she thinks, swallowing around him, pumping him a little faster, a little more insistently, all hers—
“Stop,” G’raha gasps, entire body going taut. Her hair caught in his grip, he tugs, a sharp sting on her scalp.
Solene obeys immediately, eyes alight with concern as his cock slips from her mouth, as she gently withdraws her fingers from him. “Are you alright?” she breathes, and he unsteadily raises his head.
His eyes are near-black, merely a thin ring of crimson around his fattened pupils. He releases her hair, hand sliding down the slope of her jaw, his thumb sweeping across the saliva glistening on her chin. The tight furl of worry that had bundled in her chest dissipates instantly at the look he gives her—at the animalistic need, the way it makes her cunt pulse, a thrill rushing through her.
“I need,” he says, with deliberate, grating slowness, “to come in you.”
She shivers, hazy-eyed delight creeping across her features. “Alright,” she says, and then he’s on her.
His kiss is rough, bruising as he flips her underneath him, her back hitting the mattress with a heavy thump that steals her breath. Or maybe it’s him, savagely nipping at her lips, his tongue sweeping across hers with an intensity that makes her moan, makes her writhe against him, bracketing him between her thighs. His erection presses insistently against her stomach, hot and thick, and she cants her hips toward him.
He sucks another dark, ruddy mark into the hollow of her throat, feeling her gasp. He trembles, a hand slipping between them to grip himself at the base, to stave off his own orgasm. He grits his teeth, groaning, spilling a little; she feels it drip onto her, and it makes her burn.
“Are you…?” he mumbles, an exploratory touch between her legs finding her sopping, so aroused it’s smeared on her inner thighs, glistening. “Gods,” he gasps, sliding the length of him along her cunt, the both of them moaning at the slick glide, at the way the head bumps against her clit. “You’re so lovely.”
She blushes to the roots of her hair, at the desperate way he says it. It’s never mattered so much to her, whether or not she was beautiful, until he insists that she is. Now, she wants to hear him say it all the time. She blinks fiercely, swallowing the surge of emotion that swells in her breast. “Inside me,” she whispers, reaching between them to angle him just right. The tip of him breaches her, just barely, and they both shudder. “Come inside me, Raha, I want to feel you. Need to feel you.”
He braces himself over her, kissing her so tenderly that it aches, and then slides in to the hilt. He rocks deep, a throaty groan caught between them. “Want to make you come first, Solene,” he huffs against her mouth, swallowing a gasp as she whines at the friction. “Have to,” he says, his hand between them. His thumb alights on the swollen nub of her pleasure, circling it tenderly.
She’s wound so tight it doesn’t take much. Just the steady rub of his fingers as he keeps kissing her, hips barely rolling, already has her orgasm building, rising as her cunt flutters on him. “I…” she starts, quivering at the feel of being stretched around him, so open, him so deep it’s nearly overwhelming. “Raha, I—oh—”
“That’s it,” he whispers, eyes aglow. He sounds so pleased it nearly undoes her, working her a little firmer, listening to her moan and feeling her twitch against him, nearly there.
“I’ve wanted this,” she says through a serrated breath. She cards her hands through his hair, hitching her legs around him, grinding up. The pleasure surges, molten and honey-sweet. Her mouth drops open, eyes rolling back as she clenches on him with a sharp cry. “Oh, for so long, Raha,” she admits at last; and it’s ecstasy, sensation so pure it’s almost agonizing as her orgasm tears through her, white-hot rapture that makes her wail, that goes on and on until she’s barely coherent.
G’raha takes her hips in both hands and bucks into her so hard she sees stars. He grunts, bowed over, driving into her so savagely that it punches the breath from her lungs; she can do nothing but cling to him, nothing but drift in the haze of lust, nothing but take his cock again and again, so deep she hardly knows where he ends and she begins.
“I love you,” he confesses, pressing their brows together. He breathes hot on her, stroking her cheek, not looking away. And she cannot look away either; there is nowhere, nowhere to retreat from the raw emotion in his voice nor the way it rocks through her, hooking into her heart. “Solene, I’ve loved you for years,” he says, rhythm unrelenting. “Years,” he snarls, and she knows that the weight of an age lays upon the words.
What was I so afraid of, she wonders, the faintest thought in the back of her mind. I don’t know what I was so afraid of.
“And I love you,” she breathes, feeling him shudder in her arms, breathy gasps of pleasure pushed from her with every fierce thrust. And oh, to say the words is right. So right. And she can't ever go back. “Raha, I love you.”
All of the tension bleeds from him, his expression slackening into pure bliss. He moans long and low, head bowing, nuzzling against her, pressing his cheek to hers before he bends and sinks his teeth into the side of her neck with a ferocity that draws another cry from her. His hips snap against hers once, twice, and then hold on the third, as deep as he can go; his cock pulses heavily within her as he groans and comes, comes so hard and so much that she feels the hot flood of his seed leaking out of her, dripping to the sheets.
He lets out another sound of gratification, softer, before he releases her and soothes the bite with the flat of his tongue. She whines, tipping her head back to grant him easy access, still adrift in languid pleasure despite the sting of it. Her eyes feel heavy, lashes fluttering as he leaves the mark with a tender press of his lips.
"Are you alright?" he whispers, smoothing a hand over her brow. He kisses her temple, damp with sweat.
Solene breathes deep, arms around him, content to never let go. "Yes," she whispers back, glowing with joy, eyes glittering with it. "Perfect."
His mouth quirks at the corner. "Giddy?" he offers after a moment, eyes dancing with mirth.
She giggles, feeling so happy she could float.
The next time she wakes, the light of early dawn has the room awash in warm hues, soft pinks and golds. It glints off the glass of the empty bottle on the nightstand, and Solene smiles at the brush of warm, plush lips against the top of her spine, the half-hard press of an erection against the curve of her arse.
"Good morning," she murmurs.
G'raha lets out a low rasp of laughter, his voice thick with sleep. “Good morning indeed,” he says, an arm pinned under her waist, hand splayed over her abdomen. He noses her tangled hair aside and lays another tender kiss upon the mark his teeth had left upon her in the night, already purpling.
She sighs, still half-drowsy, and reaches up to bury her hand in his hair, holding him to her as she rolls her hips back. He muffles a pleased breath in the junction of her shoulder, and she feels his cock stiffen further.
She presses her mouth to his cheek and whispers, "Again, Raha?" She needs no drink to compel her now, to make her bold enough to ask for it. Though a blazing need kindled by artificial means no longer rages through her, what remains in its place is no less ardent, no less desperate a desire.
He shudders, hand trailing up to cup the heavy swell of her breast. He gently rolls her nipple under his fingers, mindful of the soreness from his rough attentions, and she moans when his free hand tentatively cups her sex. She feels the twinge of an ache within, remembers with clarity even through the haze of dawn how he'd driven into her over and over, how he'd pinned her with his weight and buried himself so deep she still feels it. How she’d burned for it.
"Sore?" he asks softly, feeling her wince. He gentles further, the barest ghosting of touch over her tenderest flesh.
“A little,” she admits, and then she shakes her head. “Though I don’t care.” She shifts, opening for him to slip a hard thigh between hers, draping her leg over his hip. He rocks slowly against her, fingers swirling over the nub of her clit. She trembles, relaxing into the bed, turning her face into the pillow to muffle a moan.
“Like that?” he murmurs against her ear, and she nods, the roll of her hips and the way she flushes, the way her cunt grows slick against his hand all answers that satisfy him.
His touch is so mild, so considerate of her pleasure that she can’t help but give herself over to it entirely, loose-limbed and willing in his hands. It eases the ache, to luxuriate in sensation—to go pliant, let him do as he pleases, for it all feels so good. She keeps a hand in his hair to anchor herself as he strokes her and shifts, the tip of his cock nudging at her swollen folds.
“Alright?” he asks, and only after she mumbles vague encouragement does he gently press in. His hand leaves her cunt, hooking under her knee and drawing her leg higher, spreading her open to ease his way. He rocks steadily against her, stretching her open ilm by wonderfully torturous ilm.
Solene breathes through the faint pinch of it, relaxing herself as he finally bottoms out, buried deep. She feels his heavy groan rumble through her, and she arches against him slightly, a gasp caught in her throat. “Raha,” she moans, feeling him swell within her. “Oh, Raha.”
“I’m here,” he says, gently squeezing her breast, her thigh. His lips brush a burning trail of kisses along the curve of her neck, hot and open-mouthed, wet presses of his tongue against sweat-slicked skin. He latches on to the lobe of one long ear, the skate of his teeth on tender flesh making her whine. “Right here, Solene,” he murmurs.
His pace is a languid, unhurried rhythm as he rocks in her, hips rolling in a steady grind. His skin is hot, his body such a solid presence behind her, inside her, wrapped around her that she pants with every thrust, feeling feverish. Pleasure curls through her, melting molten down the curve of her spine, pulsing between her legs when she reaches down and touches herself, mimicking his easy cadence.
G'raha's grip tightens on her. "Yes, Solene," he hisses in her ear, strained with the effort to take her slowly. His hips stutter against her. "Just like that."
His voice is a low rumble in her ear as he makes love to her, indistinct sounds of want and encouragement. Sometimes, distinct words—simple murmurs of yes, so good, and most often, her name—but otherwise, it's just sound and sensation. And it washes over her, cresting pleasure, until she's coming on his cock with an exalted moan, quivering all over from blissful release.
And his words are perfectly clear, then, gasped in her ear, pressed to her flushed skin. "I love you," he says, thrusting erratically. His breath catches as he buries himself in her to the hilt, hand splayed on her lower belly to press her close, so close. He comes just like that, cock throbbing, filling her with his seed, her cunt milking him for every last drop.
"Raha," she says, tenderly petting his hair, stroking his ear. He moans softly against her, cock twitching within despite being spent. "Love you, Raha."
So much that she hardly knows what to do with it all. So much that it had frightened her—that it still seems, if she's honest with herself, a little daunting. But she knows that she can't be without it, now. Knows she was so absurdly foolish to think she could ever be content with anything less than this.
"We should clean up," G'raha mumbles against her ear some time later, sounding half-drowsy despite the words. He nuzzles into her hair and sighs.
She turns in his arms, nosing at his neck. "We should," she agrees. "Have a bath. Dress." Her stomach growls then, loud and insistent, and she groans. "Eat. I'm starving."
He laughs, an almost boyish sweetness to the sound that makes her grin, that warms her from the inside out.
The early haze of dawn is gone, split by the rising sun's bright rays that fill the room with light. They rise, Solene's body screaming in protest, though she minds very little. She minds even less when G'raha runs his hands over her skin, peppering apologetic kisses on every lovemark he'd left.
The day promises to be a hot one, the summer sky an endless stretch of limitless blue. And in the light, she finds that all she feared losing is still with her.
They still break their fast together, and he still slides an extra sweet onto her plate that he'd pretended was for him, but was really meant for her all along. She still writes the start of this new day's entry in her journal, and he still gives her a winning smile, his ears fluttering, when they lock eyes over the cerulean plume of her Bi Fang quill.
He still looks at her the way that he always has—and her heart still flutters in her chest. With love, she knows, writ plain across his face, in the ruby shine of his eyes. Unmistakable, and clear as day.