Please, be warned this chapter contains some sexual content written by someone who can't write porn :)

Grow up, girl | 2

"You look better now, sis," Immy lands on her bed without even bothering to ask for permission. "You scared the shit out of me."
"I scared the shit out myself," Reila says, shrugging. "And now our chances to catch Abazigal unprepared are lost. But on the bright side, we might as well have a nice rest while he is busy boarding up all the windows of his lair before our arrival."

Immy hugs her shoulders, and they sigh almost in unison.
Once, they discussed recent crushes and tiny toy heartbreaks, Reila's new plans to run away from Candlekeep or library guests Immy had met, sitting side by side on her bed.
Pity you can't turn back time.

"Immy?"
"Mhmm?"
"You... Aren't you afraid of me?"
"I'm afraid for you, Rei. I'm afraid our legacy will drag you down when I want you all for myself. Alive and kicking, you know, and not some worthless pile of dust. I'll even share with some nice guy if you ever find one. And if our dearest brother doesn't split in him in two for looking at you for more than 3 seconds."

Imoen takes her palm, circling it slowly.
Once, they giggled or comforted each other this way in all their childish woes and troubles, great and small.
Pity that now Reila's most considerable trouble and greatest woe is her own self.

"Look, I'm not going yell at you because he kinda already did. I think Bhaal in his grave would have applauded for loudness and passion, too, so you've had your share. And I am going to give him all the hells combined for calling us all incompetent puppies; oh, Sarevok is so paying for this. But what really stinks is that our jerk brother has a point. How come you completely forgot that you are surrounded by family, Rei?"
"I swear I don't think of you as puppies, I…"
"No, you keep silent now while I'm talking. Do you think this is, what, a joke? Do you think you can do this shit without ever talking to us, to me, about it? I am what, you souvenir from Candlekeep? I thought it would be easier for you if I gave you complete support and never pushed through your boundaries, I never pushed you to open up, but maybe I should have. I joke around and keep you smiling and remind you of the good old days, but please explain it to me, why did that result in thinking that you what, keep us here to entertain you? Without ever sharing your plans or batshit ideas of saving us all that you suddenly acquired. I did it because I thought that was the right way to support you, not because I want you to think we are only good to stand behind your back and bring you coffee. You know what family is, Rei? It's trust. How come you don't trust me enough to at least talk to me?"

Reila opens her mouth several times – and closes it again.
She has never seen Immy like this, angry, worried, solemn, without a trace of her sugar-sweet innocent attitude.
No.
Maybe she always preferred not to see Immy this way?
Her every angry response, her desire to defend herself or sharp rebuke fades before this worried face that looks older than usual.
"I trust you, Immy. But you have no idea what it was like, back in Spellhold."
"Reila. I have every idea; I was there, in Spellhold, I was there for months, and you know what I hoped for moments when I wasn't drugged or under mind control? I hoped you wouldn't do anything stupid to get to me sooner. Do you think I want you to turn into a sorceress copy of Daddy Dearest? You think that's how they behave in families, Rei, just do something silently without ever sharing with any of us? I probably should have reminded you more often that you are surrounded by people who know exactly what is at stake and are ready to be with you to the end. I saw that damn dragon as clearly as you did, and I was open to any discussion about our options, to retreat quickly, but instead… You did this, and then I found out you've acted this way since Spellhold. You know it hurts, right?"
"I... you remember how was it back when it all started? When we needed someone to wear a bright face and point in some direction with self-sure intonation? I guess it just… Rubs into you. You get used to making decisions for others, and somehow you end up thinking you're the only one responsible for them."
"You know what? That's it. You are, from now on, banned from the decision-making process. Cast your spells, joke around, do your sweet random stuff you're good at, draw lizards, but you know what I think? You should face a little reminder that you are surrounded by grown-ups, friends and family. And learn to trust us. Gods, I should have done it ages ago, as Viconia advised us to. I don't know how ironic it is that your two most disagreeable companions are right on how to manage your sorry brainless head, but I am so heeding their advice now."

For a while, Reila only marvels at her sister silently.
It is so easy to miss that moment when they are not 16 anymore, when she is no longer the elder, more powerful, with more will and fire. When this is not Immy next to her anymore, no, it's Imoen now, who survived through as much as Reila did, who had enough will to become an archmage without a mentor to help her study The Art, who is every bit as grown a person.
How could Reila have missed it?
Maybe, that's what happens if you cling to a silly girl version of yourself, despite everything: at some point, Reila simply forgot that possibly others actually do change.
"Maybe I wanted you to be the same old Immy. Whom I have to be responsible for. I wanted you to be the same; maybe I wanted myself to be the same as we were back then. Like we can step out of all we face now and be exactly the same as we were."
"Point is, Rei, what you achieved is exactly the opposite. We aren't the same as we were because we grew up, you dumb head. At least I did. And don't think I'm letting you to even choose your dinner without consulting with us ever again."
"Trust me, I won't try that ever again. The experience of non-existing in my own body was unpleasant enough."
"I trusted you all this time to be reasonable, and look how this turned out. This is serious, though. And I am serious about reminding you that you are not alone, and gods so help you if you ever try to act shit again."
"I'm not sure I have a choice anymore. I have no idea what will happen when I'm the last one. There is a chance you will have this mad spell-casting godlike thing again on your hands."
"If that happens, we will figure out what to do, sis. And no, it will not involve killing you in any form, so stop weeping for yourself. Gods, just… How could you do this to me? When all I do is try to support you in any way I can, you interpret this like you're the only one around with brains – which you are not – and do this to yourself and us all. Unlike your opinion of us, we are not a bundle of babies, and if you turn to this scary bhaalspawn again, we'll find a way to deal with you. You will have to trust us on that instead of trying to solve this your dumb way. Trust, Reila. Talks, advice, honesty. I know you are the one to always hide behind the smiling mask, and I never pushed you, but I never thought that you didn't trust me."

Reila coughs and fire rises again from the bottom of her throat - the consequences of 7 or 8, as she was told, dragon breaths in a row after a long day full of spell casting.

Such a strange feeling that is, love.
You love someone so hard – and somehow you end up forgetting that they are real living people whom you have to trust and share grieves and fears with, not only smiles and girls' night out, whom you can ask for support, and not only feel responsible for them.
You think you love someone with all your heart, but still completely miss the moment when Immy had grown into Imoen while you loved the childhood friend you had when you both were 16.
And all Reila did, she did because she loved someone, but then those who have grown into her sort-of-a-family tell her: no, Reila, there is another name for what you did.
Love is trust, confidence and solving it all together.
What you did is fear and immaturity.

You think that all you ever wanted is independence, and then your sort of family saves you from something worse than death, which you - very independently – brought upon yourself with your hands.

One hand hits you; the other pulls you out of the swamp, protecting you from death.

"I cannot believe it," Imoen repeats, rubbing her brows tiredly. "I cannot believe you. I shouldn't have let you keep your creepy habit of sitting alone and drowning in past wounds. Can you imagine, sis, just how fucked up you are if our dearest brother is right about the fact that you need to grow up? No-no, allow me to spell it until it sinks in: our violent psychopathic fellow Bhaalspawn brother not only saved your ass but also was completely right in his assessment of what is going on in your head. Doesn't sound all that great, right?"

Reila sighs.
She can tell Immy has no right to shower her with reproaches because Reila saved their lives on more than one occasion.
She can tell that if Imoen wants to go out there again and try besting adult high dragon without any spells left, she can damn well be her guest or quit complaining about the fact she was saved.

Reila doesn't, though.

There is something very disarming about honesty.

It has been so long since she and Imoen were candid with each other. Maybe she should have tried that earlier; she should perhaps have chosen honesty over trying to keep her hurts and secrets to herself.
But, she only wanted to keep it all at bay so that they could be careless giggling sisters with Imoen.

The point is, we are not anymore, dumb head, says Immy's solemn, sad face. Maybe, we can be much more than that, though, because people can form more profound and meaningful connections when they are not 16 anymore.

Imoen hugs her, wordless sympathy and sadness mixed in one simple gesture, and Reila hugs her back.

Grow the fuck up, he said.
Like she knows how to.

"Don't call Sarevok our brother, please, it's creepy," is the only thing she can master.
"Oh yes, because that makes you consider incest to top everything else that's wrong with the idea of being involved with Sarevok. But, luckily for you, that's the least of your problems now. Look, the one and only reason I allowed him to yell at you, well, apart from him being born an angry yeller, is the fact that I never thought I saw that man remind a human being afraid for someone. Even saved his yelling for you and didn't take out his anger on us, how unbelievably nice."
"Have you all been eavesdropping?"
"Not only eavesdropping, but we were also watching - in case you attempt murdering each other again," Viconia adds, emerging in the doorframe.
"And what would you do in that case?"
"We would have placed bets, Reila. Buy a leash, your dog needs some behavioral correction. Your actions might have been unreasonable. Still, you should never allow a male to speak to you in that tone."
"I still wonder, how did that happen that you broke up with this Haer'Dalis guy, who sounds just yummy by all you tell me about him? Yeah, this still is the least of your current problems. But as I see no immediate way to make you all grown-up suddenly, we can discuss that as well."
"They didn't break up, this pathetic bard offered Reila to have a relationship developed at her pace and exactly as she wanted them to, and I witnessed firsthand how Reila panicked and ran out of it the moment she realized there might be a relationship to develop. He was insufferable, though, be glad we don't see him around anymore, and Reila finally found a strong enough male."
"Mad and stubborn enough to keep up with her antics, you mean, Viconia? There's a question, who needs a leash of the two of them? Forgive me, Rei, but lately, it seems to me it's you who need behavioral correction."

…somewhere in the middle of trying to push both of them out, Reila suddenly thinks: they do it intentionally.
Both of them.
They distract her from thinking that just a little bit more and she will end, as a stupid story about nothing ends abruptly, without any meaning or plot, and the essence of the dead god will continue its flow where one mortal being was before.
It's such a strange feeling, love.
Talks about nothing of importance and the warmth of someone's palm.
Idiotic actions that you commit out of fear for those who are dear to you and their support.
Fear and courage. Weakness and someone else's shoulder to lean on. Trust and anger.

One hand rips your heart out, the other patches it anew.

So many complex feelings that she has no idea how to approach: honesty, love and trust.
You must, apparently, simply step into them, closing your eyes, with a confident long stride.

You think that nothing is going on, not really, and you two can circle around each other as much as you both like, but that is nothing more than a casual game, a form of dance, and in the end, all those idle talks of future she suspects she doesn't have, they mean nothing. And then, for half the night, you listen to how he measures his corner of the pocket plane with heavy steps like it is the most important sound in the world.

The footsteps don't stop in their aimless walk in circles for the longest time.
What to do with the fact that she listens to these steps and can't stop trying to guess what is he thinking now?

Why is it so important?

And then - then the night is quiet, and her group is asleep, and even Cespenar is not following her, when she quietly passes through her plane, around corners and along the walls, past the demons statues, past the kitchen.

Everyone has their corner here. A little personal space, a pocket plane within the pocket plane.
Immy forced Cespenar to create a huge double bed with a canopy, princess-like, pink and white. Minsc has built a whole system of labyrinths with riddles and wheels for Boo - a corner where Minsc sleeps is not even visible behind this atrocity.
Jan turns out to be minimalistic; Viconia protects her corner so ferociously that Reila does not know what it even looks like.
Sarevok...

She came to his corner of the plane only once after having instructed Cespenar to provide him with blankets, a bed and whatever else he might need for his stay.
He glared hostile; she retreated without a glance back and has never tried to invade his privacy since.

Step, and then another, and then one more. Slowly, with difficulty, hoping that she would not faint without a warning or cough and wake everybody up – although even visions have retreated, at least for the time being.

She has no idea what she wants to say or do.
Always choosing acting over thinking it through is her weakest quality. But both the worst and best things in her life are born precisely out of this quality.

This was always what had kept her through everything, her ability to act, react to events quickly and without hesitation. Simply act without planning or thinking it through.
What brought her here, with all its good and evil.

They say our weak qualities are a direct continuation of our strong qualities.

Step, and then another, and then the next. Blindly, not knowing which side of this feeling will fly into her face the next minute – but the only kind of courage that Reila has ever owned is the courage to act.

Step, and then another, and a short, sharp breath, when you draw air with effort through clenched teeth before opening the door where the unknown lies.
Open that door, and the unknown can turn out to be anything, everything, hot hands on her thighs or another box of pain.
Open this door and – and you must let it all in.

You see, everything has a price. If you choose little things that do not matter, that must disappear, and choose honesty, or allow someone to get closer than you ever dared - sooner or later, you will pay this price.

On the other hand, when a tsunami wave comes, it is no use to close the doors before it anymore. Go and dance for the last time; at least it's fun.

His place is laconic, and although she would expect this man to surround himself with luxury, there is scarcely anything but one simple bed, his gear and backpack and a pile of clothing.
Neatly folded, by the way.
That's probably the practical side of that man: objects are in better shape when adequately treated and neatly stored. Such a person folds his belongings not because he is pedantic but because his existence is more convenient, and less time is spent searching for an object.

She is greeted with his back turned to her and a heavy sigh.
The demon statue next to him is missing a horn; the wall looks like it has been hit several times.
Slightly rounded, defeated, tired back.
Sometimes, they are so talkative and open – body positions, sighs and backs.

"One would assume "obtain divinity" and "lose mortality" are synonymic in their meaning."
"Synonyms do not have fully equal meanings. They are close, but there is always a nuance, a slight difference. Trust the one who lived in the library on that."
"I used to think this nuance was slight enough to be ignored. Shit," he says without moving, paralyzed, frozen. "I just had to be hit with this hard enough to feel what a damn fool I was. What a fucking fool you are now. It was not enough to rethink; no, this doddamned thing just had to be rubbed into my face in this manner, so I felt it to the bottom."

She sits on his bed next to him, back resting against her back.
Face-to-face talks are overrated.
And sometimes far too tricky. Especially when you have yet to decide what you want to say.

"I want to strangle you now, Reila, and just be done with it all."
"Well, I told you it might still come to that."
"Then I suggest you find something else to say that doesn't bring this moment closer, or so help me, gods, I'll kill you," he states in the same powerless, defeated voice.

One back is leaning against the other, enveloped by night. The small one is leaning against the large one, or is it the other way around?
It could be both.
Her back is boney, narrow and fragile compared to his much larger frame.
His back is a round line of defeat in god knows what fight.

There is something very vulnerable about backs, isn't there?

"Look, you asked what the hell I wanted from you. I wanted you. Or myself, too. Maybe both. You know, I admire you or envy you sometimes, now when you are not spiky armor. This… solidness of your personality. I never was like that. I am many things, but I look at you sometimes and think, you're like this being from another plane, made of something hard and solid where I am quick and shifting and airy. I cannot even imagine someone more different than me. What do you think? How do you even exist?"
"I thought at some point you'd say something about being proud of me or that it has been an honor, what will make me want to vomit."
"Why would I be proud of you? Shouldn't that phrase mean that I somehow think I am above you? No, we did very different kinds of shit in our lives, that doesn't change the fact that I am not some great mentor or in any position to feel superior."
"It was your doing, though, that made me see everything in another light. By being your mad as Cyric idiotic self. I don't know if I hate this fact or am thankful for it. Maybe both."

His face is turned to her by a quarter. Just enough to see her, not enough to make out his expression.
Backs lean on each other; voices are hushed, quieter than shadows, quieter than rustling mice, quieter than soft cat paws.

"You know what is the main difference between us? I believe all I did, all that I was planning to do and achieve, and all that I brought to this world was my choice. I might have been a fool, I might have made mistakes, might view all this differently now, but that was my choice. Made by my character, brought by my will. I did what I thought was right for me; at least I have the courage to own it to the bit."
"That you surely have. Courage, I mean. Maybe that's what I… I don't know; I look at you and wonder, how do you do it? How can you tell this no-regrets thing of yours? I know doing what I did at Spellhold and back at that canyon was my choice technically, but..."
"But you lament and pity yourself and call yourself a puppet to fate's wishes. Instead of owning the fact that you made all your choices by yourself, as I did mine."

Reila tilts her head slightly to the side, touching his neck with her breath.
They are defenseless objects, backs. Backs can sit like this, leaning on each other; no telling who leans on whom; cripples, doomed, murderers, fools.
Humans.
Faces lie, faces fake a smile or hide behind a scowl, backs can sit pressed to one another and dare to be honest.

"I am sure someday, very soon, it will all come down to your choices on how to resolve this. And either you stop running in panicking circles, stop your random emotional rushes and make them in the clear head, or... We both can lose something we don't want to lose."

There are difficult words to pronounce.
Like Rumpelstiltskin.
Or we.
After being "I" for so long, after guarding and hiding and not knowing your "I," it is a problematic word.
Strange. Ugly and alien and beautiful.
One hand hurts you; the other hand supports you.

"You know what has always saved me? I act. Blindly and well, not always with a clear understanding of the results. But when it comes to simply doing something, anything, I never hesitate... But it never felt like I am making choices. Simply as doing things because it is either I act, or I and others turn dead. I don't think I know how to do it; this whole own your choices thing. Or being open to someone. Though… Maybe this time, I know for sure what I want."
The night of her plane is dark; thick, impregnable veil of darkness swallows faces and sharpens voices.
Every slight tremble and nuance in the smooth flow of the intonation becomes much louder in the dark. Her little emphasis on "I want," which sounds like it hides some scary words like "you" or "us."
A small sigh, a hard gulp.
A long inhale, the kind that you make reviewing your hand when your draw is shit.

Two unhealthy, crazy humans. Cruel, angry foul-tempered murderer. Chaotic, emotional daughter of god who acted without learning how to plan her decisions, and that both saved and condemned her in the end.
Two humans who somehow ended up leaning on each other.

"I lack clear, predictable things now, Reila. I want... Damnit, why must it be so difficult."
"Don't know what you want to say? I have no idea what I want to answer. And they say high magic is complicated."

What Reila is good at are long winding monologues. Chatting is what she can give any time in any amount; they say she talks in her sleep, even.

But sometimes, allowing your words out is a challenging task.

"I once met a half-orc who was a psychopath. I mean, absolutely beyond anything even remotely close to a human being. Like, I will try to kill you because I am bored without even the slightest thought of the consequences kind of guy. When you ended up here, I thought you would be like his long-lost twin. With a little more brain, but still. And then once, I don't know, I think somewhere still in Saradush, I saw you with the needle, trying to patch up your shirt. It was hilarious, you know. Absolutely laughable; I never saw anything funnier than how you try to use those shovels you have instead of palms for sewing. You looked like an oversized parody of poor Cinderella, bent in half, trying to hold that needle... I thought that, first, it must be not very pleasant to know that none of us, including Cespenar, will help you in any way, even in something as simple and mundane as this. And illogical, too - why keep you around if I was unwilling to at least try and treat you without hostility? Second, that maybe you are a human being. Disagreeable, but human."

His poor bed creaks under his weight when, unexpectedly and quite deftly for a man of his build, Sarevok turns around, hugging her from behind.
Hot breath touches her neck while, with a gentle movement, almost asking for permission, his palm brushes her hair off her shoulder.
Reila does not turn around, and the darkness around them becomes even heavier.

Jan was wrong.
Confessions are not given in the heat of stressed, angry yelling.
Confessions are about honesty; they belong to darkness and humans and backs.

Shovels he has instead of palms are not very well-suited for gentleness. But they say it's an effort that counts.

"Are you going anywhere with that speech, Reila?"
"I am trying to say nice things to you, find some patience for a change. So, I asked Cespenar to include you in our usual routine, like all the washing and keeping things clean and mending our garments he usually does for us. I told the others to stop picking on you. I thought, okay, maybe I should try to see an actual person if I, for some reason, agreed to travel with you. And I thought I would be able to find something good in you if I looked real hard but know what I found out? That it was like naturalists writing their notes. On day 3, the specimen turned out to be quite intelligent if you can listen to what he says despite the tone he uses. And somehow, all the worst in you is exactly the same as all the good in you, until at some point, all of it was not good or bad but simply… You. Like what is best in me, it can, in some situations, be the worst in me. But in the end, it all comes to this strange question - if I had a choice with who I would prefer to be lost, hells know where doing hells know what, like if I could be teleported to the middle of the desert with someone this instant, whom would I choose? And for some reason, I always think I would want your yelling bossy head somewhere near. With best and worst and all."

His hands are not well-suited for light touches, with skin thick and rough as a rhinoceros butt, simply not designed for gentleness.
Or for needles.
But, when forced to, even those rough shovels are capable of many things.
Palms slide down her hips to her knee, hot even through the fabric, and Reila arches back a little, tilting her head back.

She is a talker, Reila of Candlekeep.
She is many things, but this, oh, this never changes about her.

And sometimes confessions need to be heard, seen where it seems to be nothing more but backs and darkness.

"You know, coming back to that moment when you offered me your oath. Know what I would have asked now if I had a chance? People eat the craziest things. Like cooked brains. Or sheep balls. Or rotten salty fish, although they call it fermented. Or those century eggs, which are basically rotten so badly they are too called fermented. So, I would have asked that if I find the craziest, most unimaginable food there is, then you're trying it. You place it in your mouth, you chew, and you gulp, and gods so help you, I am going to find something beyond disgusting — no excuses or telling that you are above such shit. I am finding something truly insane. You're trying it. I would have made you swear this before all the gods and all the planes that you're trying it if I find something crazy enough to be worth forcing that oath out of you."

The air between them is stretched like a sprung ready to explode, and the silence is thick.
Sarevok hugs her, warm air of his breath slides down her neck to her shoulders. Lips exploring her neck start their journey with some reluctance, holding back, but it is difficult to hold back when it is so hot around.

"You could have asked me if I am ready to raise my sword against our sire in need be by your call. Or you could have asked for any form of a vow to keep me by your side, no matter the consequences. Instead, you say that you know what you want and what you want is making me eat sheep testicles."
"You don't understand," Reila replies with a small sigh, where anticipation, excitement and fear are mixed into one short sound. "I want something that cannot be part of a tragic narrative. That simply has no place in the story about murderers and children of the gods. They exchange oaths like what you suggest. And I want... I want this to be different. I want something that belongs to two mad as Cyric humans, with all the best and worst in them. My whole lot of conflicting desires at the same moment. Your sarcastic remarks about it. Can you understand? It's a scary thing, actually. And stupid. And I don't know how to do all this complicated stuff, like making fateful choices; I'm not designed for such situations; I'm shit at strategy and chess and big decisions. And I cannot imagine how I can accept that Immy… or you are dead. But that's what I want."

He takes a deep breath, taking a strain lock of her hair behind her ear.
She knows that type of breath, too.
This deep inhale that you make when you have to strengthen your resolve before going all in – and your hand is rubbish.

"I am not going to give you any oaths anymore. But I, you know what I will do? I'll make you develop planning capabilities. Not your going with the flow shit; I saw where this flow of yours is heading, and no fucking way I am following it. No, Reila, you," and kisses land on her neck, small first, but eager with each muffled word, "are going to learn how to make solid, strategic long-term plans and act in accordance with them. And when your time to make choices comes, you will act like a person who has," and lips stop at the crux of her shoulder, with a short angry sigh, "other plans."

There is something both disarming and defenseless about honesty, but maybe this not only brings you fear and makes you pay.
Maybe this other hand, the one that pulls you out of your grave, can lead to where you never imagined to be.

Sorry, destiny, sorry fate, pray to excuse me, all the mighty godly shit, I have other plans. Like she can decide so, and all would be that simple.

But, instead of answering, Reila turns around until she is facing him, practically sitting on his lap now, and dips forward to meet his lips.
And yes, it's like drinking sorgo vodka. Baidzu, it is called, though there is no immediate reason for Reila to dwell on its name. The world swirls, and it takes your breath away, and fire rolls down your stomach, and you know there'll be a payment tomorrow.

But tomorrow is another lifetime for a little fly.

This time, there is nothing hesitant or slow in his kiss. No, she is immediately caught up by pressing, demanding pressure, urging her lips to part under his eager tongue.
And even if she wanted to say that she should go now, well, all the laces on her shift are already loosened. Just exactly how much skill must he have in this field to unlace her this quickly without breaking the kiss?
Shouldn't villains and murderers have some other skills rather than being the champion in speed undressing?

There are many, many words written and said on how to kindle passion. About three rings of love, and languid southern dancers, and about courtesans whose art is every bit as complex as that of an organ player, under whose deft palms and feet rows of keys and levers produce sounds from heavenly singing to abyssal roar.

None of it matters when the passion is already kindled.

Passion is not at all complex. Passion does not need long, thoughtful bodily practices or exotic dancers; it does not need slow Southern languor.
Tired, spoiled sultans, they need three love rings to kindle the slightest spark in their jaded hearts. People drawn to each with this sudden, basic force don't need advice on how to ignite tired, cold blood.
Why kindle something that is about to evaporate from boiling need?

It turns people into two greedy, hot waves, into two idiots who behave like teenagers throwing into each other's hands without a trace of reasonable thought.

Leaving only you and me, and now.
She throws off her shift in one motion and pulls his shirt up impatiently: skin wants to be closer to the skin; a human wants closer to a human. Sarevok pulls her onto his lap to kiss her again, deeper and hungrier now.

Powerful things are often straightforward.
The magic of desire is simple; it does not need much so that a heavy, hot tension settles in the lower abdomen, so that of all the words in the world, there remains one: more.
More of your smell, your hot skin, more of touches, more of hands, more of lips, more, more of you.

Desire, it would seem, is not a feeling but a process of getting past the boundaries and over the edges, pulling you close and closer until there's one where there used to be two – even for the shortest moment.
Washing away everything, leaving only a blur of sensations.
Leaving nothing except for the warm, soft lips descending down her neck and his palms caressing her thighs, coupling her breasts, studying her body.
Except for her own hands, traveling along his powerful shoulders and broad back, while Reila slightly bites his earlobe.
Except for sighs, rustles, and whispers, and soft sounds.

Only me, only you, only here and now, communicating in signs that are clearer and louder than words.
"Oh," she breathes out when his hand sliding up her thigh, reaches its destination and touches her just so, and this little whimper and her slightly arched body are understood perfectly well, and she gets more of just so until she moans aloud.
There's his very sharp breath when Reila discovers a very sensitive spot slightly below his ear, and isn't that strange how you can suddenly be shrunk into one need - to get, receive, coax out more of such sighs?

Desire is a strange state when words desert her head until only moaned syllables remain of her vast vocabulary.

Everything happens so fast, and probably sometime later, they will enjoy slow foreplay and a long process of knowing every inch of each other and every type of sigh, whisper and moan.
Sometime later, when calmer lights will replace bright wildfires.

His fingers slide into her with ease, and probably, mighty sorceress should have other traits than practically flooding the room from the simplest touch.
But who would have had a shred of patience when the air around is so thick with need?
His surprisingly deft fingers are figuring out all the ways to make it "just so" for her; Reila moans and wriggles on his lap, kissing and biting his neck, and it's impossible to be languid when desire is pulsing so loudly in her head.

Pulling away, he barely frees himself from the remains of his clothing - indeed, this man is a champion in speed undressing, what an interesting surprise - and only breathless, ecstatic sounds are left of her when he lingers a little, waiting for an answering look and a little movement of her hips before he grabs her thighs firmly and slides into her with one joined movement of their bodies.

And then nothing, nothing, nothing is left between them but the simplest of all - I want you so, I feel so good with you.
Oh god, I feel so good. Here. Now. With you.

When there is nothing in the world but moaned syllables and present tense, temples pressed to one another, his palm in her hair and around her hips, her little sounds she muffles pressing lips to his neck, except for the rhythm of two merged bodies, except for straightforward and mighty things, that can make two people feel so impossibly, unbearably good with each other.

Sometime later, everything will be long, slow and beautiful. So far, Reila only has time to think that perhaps she shouldn't start joking about the whole five minutes of pure bliss.
There is such a thing as a very, very bad time for certain jokes.
Although, it's true, both parts - and the bliss, and five minutes.

And then - then there are no thoughts left, only movements, hushed sounds and sensations, hastening rocking of her hips and tightening grip of his arms, whispers sewed into one hot exhale where it is impossible to make out a single word but the meaning is apparent.

Strange, isn't it?
She had nice and very nice sex before; she was courted and seduced.
And - here and now - she reaches her peak in practically two thrusts when the world seizes to exist in the electric waves of pleasure, and there is no way to explain why or how.
Reila arches her back, reminding an exotic letter of the elven alphabet, and Sarevok follows her shortly, groaning something she cannot hear but understands perfectly well and claiming her lips again in a demanding kiss.

Probably, because of passion, it does not need this whole flock of half-naked southern dancers to make you never want to break this entangling of two bodies.

And then, for a long time, they both cannot move, cannot break away from this tight embrace, panting heavily - and Reila thinks that she should probably get up, finally, and go clean all the mess they managed to create by their five minutes of bliss, but doesn't.
A small exhale, contentment and satisfaction and tired peace.
A slight movement to cuddle up even closer, enveloped by his arms and his smell, forehead resting on his shoulder.
Tight, but not hurtful, pressure of his arms to bring her closer in while they are both alive and here, now and next to each other, is their place for some reason.

What are those words that she would like to say to him?
What can she say now that she hasn't already?
Nothing. Reila doesn't want to say anything at all.

Maybe she'll come up with something tomorrow, later, in a week, but in the meantime, she slips to his side, between the wall and his hard body, in a warm claustrophobic corner.

She puts both feet on him, buries her nose in his neck and falls asleep instantly, like a candle blown with a strong puff.

Almost done! Only two more chapters + one short epilogue to go. I am sorry, I was unable to stick with my decision to make sad ending.

Thank you for reading and your time!