#idk if they seem tipsy enough…was aiming for not that much but halfway through i was like. i’ve never written tipsy before…

[scionshtola]

💙 for Mir/Aeran or Cori/Y'shtola? :eyes:

thank you nero!! this was actually a hard choice but Corishtola won in the end

💙 drunken kiss / tipsy || 472 words

Corisande lounges against the foot of the bed, one hand curled around the stem of a wine glass and the other around Y’shtola’s waist. The fire burning low in the hearth casts a flickering light across their entwined legs, a warm pall against the silvered moonlight pouring in through the window.

Y’shtola leans against her, waving her own glass around as she explains the various tomes she read in the Noumenon today, her gestures growing more sweeping with each sip. When she arrived at the apartment earlier, bright-eyed and eager despite the weariness, Corisande broke out a bottle of wine, cut them both slices of the vanilla tart she’d made, and settled in for her own private lecture.

Corisande hung on every word, as excited to listen to Y’shtola’s explanations as she was to share them. It was easier then to keep up with what she was saying, but a few hours and a few glasses later,  loose-limbed and warm from the wine and the fire alike, Corisande was paying more attention to her smile than the words she was speaking.

Y’shtola punctuates a statement with a flourish of her glass in Corisande’s face, and they eye the sloshing liquid with some concern. It takes slightly more concentration than usual, but she manages to pluck the glass from Y’shtola’s fingers and set it far from the plush white rug they are lying on. Y’shtola continues on, hardly seeming to notice.

“Mayhap I should request access to the restricted section once more,” she says, rapping her knuckles against her cheek. “There is undoubtedly more I could learn on the subject, given the right books. Do you suppose Montichaigne would grant me permission again?”

“We could always sneak in,” Corisande offers helpfully. When Y’shtola’s eyes widen, she adds with a shrug, “I know a guy.”

Y’shtola laughs and settles further into their embrace, tilting her head up to look at them. She looks beautiful—her cheeks rosy from the wine, the white whisps of hair that fall across her eyes made silver by the moonlight, the curve of her smile—and Corisande has to kiss her.

They pull her closer, the silk of her robe smooth under their fingers. The taste of wine lingers on her lips, sweet and inviting, and they chase after it, deepening the kiss.

“You let me go on for so long,” Y’shtola says between kisses, breathless and giggling against their lips.

“I enjoy your going on. Though,” Corisande says, her body warm and mind abuzz from more than just drink. “You may have to repeat some points.”

“I shall prepare a review for the morning.” They keep their hands on her waist, securing her as she shifts into their lap and presses her forehead to theirs. “For now…I have long believed a lesson is made better by a practical component.”