#y'shtola x zoissette

[driftward]

What may come one day, and it shall be beautiful...

by @diadoesart!

[yzeltia]

Starlight

A tale of two friends reunited a year after their first fateful encounter...though tragically one had lost her memory in that time apart. Together, the seek the tower that will let them obtain the power of the star.

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Not a drawing, but I am doing my part! (it is probably pretty out of character for both of them, but hey, don't let anyone say I am not doing my part for the arts)

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Sorry ;)

19) getting turned on by their partner’s new uniform for work and then roleplaying a bit

Don't apologise, I'm delighted. Thank you for the ask, and I appreciate your patience in waiting for an answer. Answer beneath the cut.

(WoL or GA timeline, works in either, maybe in both)

~*~

Y’shtola looked herself carefully in the mirror as she made final adjustments to the glasses she now wore.

In appearance, they were quite plain. A pair of glasses of moderately thick rim, in a classical style. In actuality, they were quite sophisticated, made exactingly for her needs. The lenses were based on a starlens, meant to amplify distant aether, and the frame was so thick for the metals it had to contain, in order to maintain the enchantments that had been worked into it.

They were meant as an aid to Y’shtola’s aethersight. The use of a starlens was Zoissette’s idea, and she had initially made just such a hand lens for Y’shtola to use during their study hours in Nuomenon. The glasses were also Zoissette’s design, meant to help Y’shtola in her latest pursuit. Acting as head archivist for the nascent library that Koana wished to have built in Tural. A personal favor Zoissette had asked, and something to do between stints researching the gate to Alexandria.

She frowned at herself, looking through her new glasses at herself in the mirror, but decided that was the best she was going to manage. She smoothed down the front of her outfit, a simple buttoned up blouse, a skirt that went to her knees, a sensible pair of pumps she could stand in all day, and some stockings. An outfit that was elegant in its simplicity, and one which she could comfortably wear all day while making her way through the stacks. The skirt may have been a bit impractical, but she liked its cut too much to go without. She slipped a cardigan over to complete the look, and wandered back out into the living area.

Zoissette was waiting for her, sitting on the couch, eager to see her.

“How do you like them?”

“I will be able to tell you more after a day or so of using them. For now, I will say, it is as much as you anticipated. Useful for reading and small, fine work. But not good for general use. The view distance of my aethersight is even shallower than before, and everything has a terrible halo around it. I have well grown used to the world as seen through aethersight, but these, well.”

“Well, they are meant for close up work to help you read more than anything. I would advise… not, uhm. Wearing them. Otherwise.”

Y’shtola looked over at Zoissette, and saw the swimmy, starry expanse of her aether, the individual lights that she was shining all the brighter for the faint halos around them. As beautiful as the sight was, especially in the waviness of the rest of what she could see, that did not help her just now, so she lifted the glasses up and focused her aethersight to see the world more like most people did.

And as the colors settled and turned to true, and details came into focus, she saw Zoissette, seated, biting her lip a little, and her eyes a touch too wide open, a touch too focused.

She allowed herself a small little laugh.

“Enjoying the view?”

“…maybe.”

“And here I thought this outfit somewhat conservative.”

“And the glasses.”

“And the glasses? I would have thought their rims rather thick and unwieldy to truly be alluring. Certainly, not as sophisticated as I might like…”

“Right. Yes. Of course.”

Zoissette swallowed, and smiled at her. One of the real smiles. Oh, the things she would do for those rare real smiles.

“Do they not make me appear older?”

“No? Not really? Those ones in specific I think, well. Neither older nor younger. More authoritative, maybe.”

Zoissette had her feet tucked under her, and was gripping the side of her chair. Y’shtola raised an eyebrow, and then, with deliberate slowness, sauntered over.

Zoissette just stared, transfixed. The woman was tall, but seated while Y’shtola was standing gave Y’shtola just the tiniest bit of advantage, Zoissette’s gaze at about her bust line. An advantage which she now fully utilized, as she moved to gently nudge her knee against Zoissette. Zoissette sat back a little, spreading her knees apart, enough for Y’shtola to lean forward, and plant her knee on the seat.

“Maybe you could, uhm, help me look-” said Zoissette, who finally actually looked up to meet Y’shtola’s eyes, “- something up.”

“Oh?” said Y’shtola, her tail swishing back and forth behind her. She arched her back a little, to press her chest forward prominently, and she angled her head to look down her nose at Zoissette, whose face was beginning to turn quite red. More importantly, so were the tips of her ears, a sure and familiar tell.  “And I suppose my eager little student would like to review the pertinent appendices?”

Zoissette bit her lip, trying not to laugh, and rocked back and forth in the chair a bit. “Well, I thought about maybe spending some time in the stacks. I hear the selection here is extremely well rounded, and I would love to delve in.”

They held their gaze for a moment, and then, Zoissette broke, looking down, tittering slightly. “Sorry. Sorry. This is very silly. I feel very silly. That outfit is really -”

She stopped as Y’shtola grabbed her jaw with one hand, fingers and thumbs pressing on her cheeks, making her mouth pucker just a little. She pulled her face back up, Zoissette going willingly with the motion, until their gazes locked one more.

Y’shtola narrowed her eyes. Still looking down her nose. She tilted her head just the tiniest bit, as though intrigued by this specimen that had wandered into her ‘library’. And then she rolled her head back and forth slowly, as though inspecting said specimen, carefully looking it over. And as she did so, Zoissette began to fidget. Her hands still gripping the sides of her seat, even as she drummed her fingers. Her breathing becoming shallow. Her mouth beginning to tremble, Y’shtola feeling the vibration in her fingers. Her ears turning redder.

And still, Y’shtola was implacable. Just watching. She reached up with her other hand, and lowered her glasses. She would lose much, in the shift in sight, but it was worth it. Worth it to feel the shift in Zoissette as she did so. As she primly adjusted them onto her face. As she lowered her head, bringing her nose almost to Zoissette’s. As she moved her body closer. As she leaned against Zoissette, feeling her own heat reflected off Zoissette’s body mixed with the warmth Zoissette herself brought to the equation.

Once her glasses were settled the way she liked, she examined Zoissette again. Her aether, swimmy, waves of stars in an ocean of blue so deep it was almost black. Ripples and waves of who Zoissette was and all of her might and destinies.

She still held Zoissette’s jaw in her hand, though she relaxed it, just a bit. She did not want to harm Zoissette, did not want the press of her fingers to begin to ache. Just to remind her where she should be looking and who was in control here.

With her other hand, she reached up, slowly, and delicately took an ear between finger and thumb, and lightly drew along its edge, pinching every so slightly. Like running a thread through her fingers. Her vision may not have been clear or detailed, but her sense of touch was more than present, and she could feel Zoissette tremble against her body.

Slowly, she tilted her head, past Zoissette’s field of view, still holding on. As her hand trailed down from ear to neck to collarbone, from collarbone to swell of breast, from swell of breast to the firmness of stomach, she touched her lips to Zoissette’s ear, and ran her tongue slowly along them.

And she purred as Zoissette sucked in her breath.

She let go, now, and Zoissette tilted her head to the side, looking up, making more space for Y’shtola. Y’shtola resettled a bit, shifting around to get more comfortable. One hand against Zoissette’s side, to hold herself steady. Just a little bit of separation of their bodies, for just long enough for another hand to find the inside of the waistband of Zoissette’s pants, to explore further downward. One foot still on the ground, helping her hold her own weight and so she could move around as she pleased. And the knee that was on the seat slipped off, now, to lean against the front of the chair, arched foot touching toes to ground. She stuck her butt out a little further, her tail now curled back upon her, swaying in the air.

And the entire time, Zoissette’s breath had been quick, unsteady. She only attempted to lift her hands from the edge of the seat once, but a swat and she put them back, immediately understanding her part, role, and place in all this.

Steady once more, Y’shtola moved one hand to be on top of one of Zoissette’s hands, fingers on the outside of tight knuckles, and she leaned back just a little to look at Zoissette’s face once more.

“Now tell me,” she crooned. “What brings you here?” and as she said that, she slid two fingers in between Zoissette’s folds.

Zoissette spasmed, and threw back her head, and cried out. Y’shtola was quick on her, her free hand now back on Zoissette’s jaw, shifting her weight so she could stand.

“Behave,” she said. “We must maintain a certain level of decorum, should we not? Inside voice, if you please.”

Zoissette just sort-of nodded against Y’shtola’s hand, and whimpered.

“Good girl,” said Y’shtola, letting go, and she bent over to run a tongue along Zoissette’s ear while her fingers explored, finding Zoissette delightfully wet. Fingers slid up and down her slit, and she could feel the nub of Zoissette’s clit. A light touch of teeth to skin made Zoissette choke a gasp. The rubbing of two fingers on either side of her clit made her whimper, curling on herself, going tight to try to control herself, to not make a noise.

Well, not make too much noise. Her breathing was quite loud, and there was definitely a ‘nnnnnngh’ escaping from her.

Y’shtola continued, with an almost casualness to her. She pulled back from her ear, and leaned against her once more. She moved to be more on Zoissette’s side now, rather than in front of her, allowing herself easier movement inside of Zoissette’s smalls under her pants. Allowing her to look from head to toe, able to see the tension in the currents that were the aether that made up Zoissette. Able to reach with her other hand where she liked, and where she liked was Zoissette’s breast, kneading it with her fingers through Zoissette’s top.

“You are not very articulate,” she said. “Have I found what you were looking for?”

“Y-y-yes,” said Zoissette, her voice strained.

“Are you certain?” asked Y’shtola. “I might check elsewhere, if you remain unsatisfied.”

“N-no. I am - I am good.”

“Breath.”

Zoissette rocked back and forth in the chair, taking several deep gulping breaths. Y’shtola smiled wickedly to herself, as she placed a hand on Zoissette’s shoulder, and leaned close to an ear once more.

“And now,” she said, and she leaned, leaned forward, leaned in, and really bore down, her fingers alight, with carefully timed movement and lots of pressure.

Zoissette cried out, and as she did so, Y’shtola stuck her hand full in her mouth.

“Quiet in the library,” she said, cooly, calmly, as she continued her ministrations. Zoissette nodded dumbly, even as she whimpered against Y’shtola’s hand, drooling slightly. Her eyes clenched shut, and began to water from the exertion, from the effort, of trying to hold in, trying to hold back.

It was no use. Y’shtola well knew what she was doing now, and Zoissette’s body bucked. She bit down, hard, and Y’shtola resisted the urge to yelp herself. She had put herself at such risk, and she knew it. However, even her throes, Zoissette still had enough control to not fully bear down. And so she kept her hand in Zoissette’s mouth, letting her ride out the wave of her first orgasm.

“Breath,” she admonished again, and Zoissette nodded, before reaching up a hand and desperately tapping at Y’shtola’s arm.

Y’shtola pulled back immediately, retrieving her hand from Zoissette’s smalls and pulling her hand out of her mouth. Zoissette gasped, and pushed herself forward out of the chair, and fell to the floor on hands and knees, breathing hard.

“Oh gods. Oh Fury.”

“Are you alright?” said Y’shtola, mildly concerned, crouching next to her.

“Gods swive hells yes. That was intense. Oh hells. My stomach hurts from tensing. I just - I just need a moment. I just…”

Y’shtola nodded, and took off her glasses. She wanted to be able to see, now, and her more normal aethersight returned to her. She wrapped an arm around Zoissette, and rubbed her back as the woman continued to take several deep breaths, trembling.

“I think,” Zoissette said at last, “We have ruined my smalls.”

Y’shtola laughed.

“Oh gods you are a demon with your voice. I am going to be hearing that in my dreams.”

“Sweet ones, I hope.”

“Damning ones.”

Zoissette let herself down the rest of the way to the floor, and rolled over to her side, stopping to look at Y’shtola with open adoration, before rolling onto her back, her breathing still heavy.

“Are you certain you are quite alright? Normally we can go for quite longer.”

“Just intense. Also I do not think the chair agreed with me.”

“Duly noted.”

Zoissette stayed where she was, and Y’shtola settled into sit next to her, picking up a hand to hold it.

“So do I get to stay in the library, or…?” asked Zoissette, and Y’shtola laughed.

[driftward]

My friend and I discussing our respective OCxNPC ships

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My favourite thing about them is that they don't need each other. They want one another. And that is precious to me.

They are both woman of science. One is driven by curiosity, she wants to ask questions. The other driven by the search for knowledge, she wants to know answers. Similar, complimentary, but not the same.

Hey! I'm in big dumb shipfeel city, so give me a reblog and show me your favorite screen of your XIVship, I wanna see them!

Whether it's OCxCanon, OCxOC, or CanonxCanon, whatever! Or even if it's a platonic, besties relationship and not romantic, whatever! Maybe share your favorite thing about them if you want?

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(( A commission from the talented @domirine, featuring my OC, Zoissette Vauban, and Y’shtola Rhul. Thank you!))

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"I have a present for you, beloved."

Y'shtola sometimes has to be a bit direct. Art by Hikaru over on twitter!

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A gorgeous battle couple picture, drawn by @primamchorus, of Y'shtola and Zoissette fighting in the thirteenth!

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you should reblog this with pics of your oc x canon ships, i wanna see em.

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Did you know that @diadoesart does comms? An incredibly self-indulgent request! LOOK AT THEM they're great!

Something to look forward to... their bonding day...

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A super adorable lil' domestic moment between Y'shtola and Zoissette, as captured by @cocorean-draws-blog! Thank you!

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@yzeltia sent me an ask of "18) a/b/o (Zoisette/Y'shtola)" but sent it to my main blog. Answer here, but I have to apologise to Y'zel here.

I have nothing against Omegaverse, but it is kind of outside my usual wheelhouse, and there's no ideas in it I really want to explore. My apologies! Your ask shall have to go, essentially, unanswered. But I appreciate the question, anyroad.

(an AU, obviously) ~*~

Travel was simply the worst.

Y’shtola stood on the pier, waiting for the ferry that would take her to Vesper Bay. She stood, back ramrod straight, head up, hand firmly on her staff, staff planted firmly to the ground. She was composed at all times, as a woman of culture had to be, but during this most difficult time, she was especially composed.

Her body wanted one thing. She, however, wanted quite nothing to do with that.

And others, well, they wanted her.

It was unfortunate that she was a Miqo’te as well. Their people had a decidedly lopsided gender and modality presentation compared to most. More women, and most of those women Omes, like Y’shtola herself. Of course, it was just hormones, perhaps a slight shift in temperament, a difference in what role they played in having children. But the reputation was that a Miqo’te Ome woman was nearly always in heat, and nearly always sexually available.

And it seemed that society at large had settled on the conceptual idea that they were definitely always sexually desirable.

She could almost feel the oppressive wave as someone approached her on the dock, and she tilted her head only slightly to watch as a Hyur woman wandered up to her, eyes dilated, with a small, lazy smile on her face.

“Which way are you going, sweetheart?” she said, her voice thick. Y’shtola could feel the tenseness in the air, the gentle pull. Almost certainly an Alak in heat.

“My own way,” she said, tersely, lifting up a hand to palm the woman’s face and push her away. 

The other woman looked offended, even as she stepped back. “Well, no need to be that way about it,” she growled, beginning to move off.

“I might be interested,” a voice piped up, this one belonging to a Roegadyn man. The Hyur eyed him before moving off in a huff, leaving him looking dejected and Y’shtola amused. Well, biology might have its say, but the whims of humanity always took the yoke to steer the actual ways of the world.

The others on the pier, whatever their modality or state, were polite, and kept their distance. There were a few other Miqo’te women huddled together who looked over at the commotion, and they looked at each other before coming to the combined decision of making their way over casually. Still chatting with one another, acting as though they were not really paying attention, but soon they were near enough to Y’shtola to serve as a kind of buffer.

She caught the eye of one and gave a small acknowledging nod. The effort was hardly necessary, as she knew how to take care of herself. If not with sharp words, then her staff and magicks would certainly do. But she would not dissuade such help as it was offered, and it was a kind of shared social nicety her people shared with one another. Look out after one another, fight for one another, each taking their turn as others may have been hobbled, and thus they could form their own destiny, despite whatever opinions modalities might have had on the matter.

As she waited she heard, rather than saw, someone else approaching, their footsteps heavy. The other Miqo’te women glanced at each other and towards this new person nervously. Not yet intervening. Y’shtola turned, and smiled, and made sure to greet the newcomer, to make it obvious that they were friends.

“Zoissette!” she said, holding a hand out to meet them. Zoissette gave that strained smile of theirs in return. The nearby Miqo’te women visibly calmed, and returned to more casual chatting.

“Y’shtola,” said Zoissette, taking and shaking her hand firmly before letting go. A tall Elezen woman. A fellow Ome, like herself. A military woman from the far North, clad nearly always in heavy armor. Preferred to keep her distance, but a friend for all that. Y’shtola had come to appreciate her as a comrade in arms over the past many summers.

Y’shtola took a deep breath in, and felt that warmth of aether that hinted at how Zoissette might be just this moment. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Heat?’ she asked. It would have been a rude question under most circumstances, but Zoissette was near as kin, and hesitated only slightly before nodding.

Well. It seemed they would be in the same boat while on the same boat for this voyager. Y’shtola was relieved. Though she would not wish such a state of matters on anyone, if they were both likewise miserable, at least the company of one another might serve to soothe it.

“Alright! Prepare for boarding! You all know how this works!” called out the dock worker, a burly Roegadyn man yelling over the hum of the crowd. “If you’ve got luggage call, get it to the porters or carry it yourself! If you’re an Ome, we got a single sealed room below decks if you wish to avail yourself of it, priority to those in heat! Bets and bonded, you’ve got the run of the place, just behave yourselves. If you’re an Alak, you’re stayin’ topside, that goes double if you’re in rut! Either way Alaks, give each other some space, and if you get in a fight, whinin’ to th’ captain about how hot your blood is won’t save you from the magistrate - if she’s feelin’ kind! If she’s not, it certainly won’t save you from the drink, so keep your hands to yourself!”

“That will be us, then,” said Y’shtola. “Care to share a space?”

She glanced over to see Zoissette suddenly digging for a notebook. The other woman flipped through it rapidly, and then began to trace a finger down the page, frowning deeply to herself.

Y’shtola snuck a glance. It appeared to be a list of time tables, weights and dosages.

Odd.

“I, uhm, just remembered,” said Zoissette, snapping the notebook shut and putting it away. “The Admiral wanted me to make a report before returning.” She looked to the dockworker, and waved a hand. “Excuse me! I think I need to take the next ferry! Can that be arranged?”

Y’shtola tried not to look too disappointed as the porter eyed Zoissette before yelling back to the ferry coordinator. “Hey! We got a flopper here! Can we swing her?”

The coordinator looked something up, shook their head, shrugged, and yelled back. “We got space on the next one and the fourteener!”

The dock worker looked to Zoissette. “Which one you want, then? Swing back by at twelve or fourteen bells?”

“The twelver should be fine, thank you.”

“Alright then. Get off with you, be back for that one or else your fare’s forfeit, got it?”

“I understand.”

“Great, get outta here.” The dock worker turned to yell again. “She’s taken the twelver!”

“Sorry,” said Zoissette to Y’shtola, at least having the decency to look sheepish.

“’Tis of no great matter,” said Y’shtola. “I will simply have to endure the Ome cabin in relative solitude. You shall make it in time for your briefing, I hope?”

“Yes. More than enough time.”

“Very well. I shall see you in Vesper Bay.”

Zoissette just nodded before heading back up the pier, and Y’shtola readied herself to board the ferry. As she did so, she thought of how odd the whole exchange was. Zoissette was a woman who prided herself on planning and organization. How did she manage to forget a meeting with the Admiral?

Such thoughts were pushed out of her mind, however, as she boarded the ferry.

The Ome cabin was not so much a cabin, as much as it was a tiny corner of the hold that had been partitioned off. It was less a nicety, and more a necessity. While one’s modality did not necessarily have to dictate one’s behaviour, too many people leaned into it, and allowed it to lead wheresoever it might. In the tight confines of a ship, that meant close proximity to Alaks could frequently drive Omes to heat, and Alaks themselves might let themselves into the blood fire and fall to violence. Bets often tried to manage the tangle of emotions, aether, and hormones, keeping the peace, and that was made simpler by keeping Alaks topside in the sea breeze, and Omes relatively isolated below decks.

It was a cramped space, guarded by a single male Lalafell at the door, probably a Bet. That race, in particular, had strong cultural norms around modalities, and supposedly had a keen sense of what state others were in. These attributes allowed them to be seen as fair, and lent them the history to build the trade empire of Ul’dah. Whether any of it was true or not, they were generally trusted with this kind of task. This one had simply looked Y’shtola up and down briefly before waving her in.

Many of the Miqo’te women who had kept close to her on the pier were here, now, and there were others aside. A Roegadyn male sat in one corner, his arms wrapped around his legs, facing away from the group, his head bowed. Two Omes, obviously deep in heat, were off to one side, pawing weakly at one another and necking half-heartedly in an attempt to stave off the hunger by tending to it as best as they could. Others were in a tight cluster, playing a game of some sort, trying to keep themselves distracted.

Y’shtola herself found a hammock near the entrance close to the top, and climbed up into it, laying down on her back, tail tucked and held between her thighs. She held her staff tightly to her chest, and stared at the ceiling, and tried not to think of the itch, of the need pulling at her even now. Slow, deep breathing, keeping herself as calm as she could manage under the circumstances, even as she lay with her body rigid.

One week of it, that she had to deal with this hateful biology. One week of being watched hungrily. Of others with lesser control seeing her as little more than a snack. One week of feeling a sharp edge to everything, sensitive to every little movement, nerves feeling raw and exposed.

And another hour to port.

She disembarked quickly in Vesper Bay, and managed to avoid any would-be boorish suiters that may have picked up on her current state as she made her way to the Waking Sands. A sympathetic look from Tataru on her way in, and at last, she was safe, from others, from herself. The Waking Sands was always a safe haven. They had the usual mix of peoples here, men and women, Alaks Bets and Omes alike, but they were respectful of one another, knew where they stood with one another.

They all showed up at the appointed time to the scheduled meeting, of course. Minfilia took charge at first, gathering reports from happenings over the last season. Y’shtola looked around, and as was usual when she was in such a bothered state, she found it difficult to keep her thoughts away from ruminating on modalities, on how it affected them all, and her most of all.

Of course, everyone knew that modality was merely suggestion, not destiny, but social and cultural norms and rules and stories persisted despite that. But here, the Scions were each like to make and follow their own destinies, make their own rules, despite whatever role society thought they each should play, despite whatever opinions their hormones might try to sway.

Minfilia was perhaps as typical as they came. An Alak, with the supposed natural leadership qualities that came to them. She was yet unbonded, but also sought no bond nor even mate, placing the mission above all. A sentiment Y’shtola well understood.

If Minfilia was a typical Alak, then Urianger was perhaps the most atypical one. The man was more content to stay back, in the shadows, to offer support to his fellows. He also remained unbonded and, if he found mates to quell his rut, he did not share the tidbit of with whom, how, or when with any. Well, possibly Thancred knew, as they treated with one another as brothers.

Speaking of, Y’shtola knew Thancred would be game for scratching this particular itch she had. As a Bet, he was reasonably flexible in how he could approach the matter, and they were long and close friends. She considered it, but dismissed the thought for the time being. The time on the ferry had taken its toll, and she was more frustrated than amorous just now.

Speaking of people willing to scratch itches, Klynt was a Bet. In theory. In practice, well. While the Scions did not pay any particular heed to matters of modality outside of questions of practicality, Klynt practically lived in them. Somehow. All at once. Y’shtola had seen her display the aggressiveness of an Alak in rut as well as the hunger of an Ome in heat. If most of them bucked the social narrative, Klynt did so as well, in the opposite direction by somehow embracing all narratives at once. And enthusiastically, as often as she could get away with. Y’shtola often wondered how she found the time. But though the offer had been made, Y’shtola had abstained, for reasons of her own.

Papalymo, another Bet. The Bets among the Scions, she considered, perhaps met social and cultural norms more than any other of the Scions. But they were afforded such flexibility, often looked over by society at large, by being the uninteresting in-betweens and go-betweens. They could mate and they could breed, but their role was to fit any role, while being exceptional at none. At least, so society would say. Personally, Y’shtola found Papalymo to be a stalwart companion and a more than capable leader, which was well. It would take a strong personality such as his to overcome his traveling partner, Yda, an Alak. They were not bonded and they did not mate, but they were tight friends, closer than kin. And if Minfilia exemplified the leadership that was supposed to be the birthright of Alaks, then Yda exemplified their supposed headstrong nature, often barreling into trouble without much of a thought of how to barrel back out. Much to Papalymo’s chagrin.

Arenvald was an Ome, but Y’shtola only knew that for having worked with the man for a while. He had all the supposed hallmarks of a Bet, and carried himself as much as such, often even lamenting that he wished that he truly was a Bet, if for no other reason than to get rid of the periodic annoyance that Ome life brought with it. In this, Y’shtola found solidarity with the young Hyur.

The twins were not here today, and were too early in their growth for their modalities to become apparent. And Nyx was Nyx, outside of the gender and modality cycle altogether. Though Y’shtola, if pressed, would have to admit a certain feeling of satisfaction in how they had handled, more than once, the error of someone assuming that they were a ready and willing Miqo’te Ome woman.

That left Y’shtola herself, an Ome, naturally. She also bucked the trend. She would never have been meek nor submissive, and she did not give in to base hunger. The other Scions oft looked to her for guidance, recognizing her leadership qualities, especially when it came to keeping them focused and on task, or in her particular fields of expertise. No, she was an Ome to be certain, but fit not one single stereotype that such modality brought with it.

Well, there was one other.

Zoissette, who was now taking charge of the meeting. Zoissette was an Ome, and she too defied stereotype. A natural leader, but not in the way Alaks were meant to be, but in the way Bets often were. Listening to the group, offering feedback, gracious when wrong, stalwart when right. A woman with a curious nature about her, always checking in with the others. And no, not quite right. She was also a leader at least one of the ways society held Alaks to be. She lead from the front, almost always wearing that heavy armor of hers, ready and willing to put herself between those she cared for, and those who would do harm to them or others.

Y’shtola watched, practically transfixed, oddly, almost as though she was distracted by Zoissette. Which was simply absurd, as Zoissette was meant to be the focus of attention just now, leading her part in the meeting. How could one be distracted by the lead speaker? Y’shtola watched, as she talked strategy, outlined upcoming plans, and took questions.

And she felt a pang of sympathy at how obviously tense Zoissette was. Being in the middle of heat was a pain they both shared just now. Y’shtola had mastered the art of almost being casual in how she handled it, her control iron. Zoissette’s control was likewise sacrosanct, but Y’shtola had learned to recognize her tells. The way her shoulders were higher than normal. The way she glanced around a room, not with her ordinary speed, but with almost a sharpness to her glances. The way she kept her distance even more than she normally did.

If anyone else noticed, they were too polite to point it out, and as obvious as it was to Y’shtola, that did not mean it was truly fully obvious at all. Zoissette finished her part, and shortly after, Minfilia closed out the meeting, promising that final instructions would be waiting for everyone with Tataru in the morning. The group filed out, and Y’shtola went to go find Urianger, wishing to speak with him further.

As she approached him, however, she felt that oppressive pressure radiating off of him, luring her in as much as she also felt a well trained counter pressure to avoid it. He smiled at her, apologetically, as she approached, and she stopped to give him a polite distance.

“Ah, Urianger, I meant to ask after your most recent aetherological findings…”

“And I would be best pleased to deliver them, my lady, were it not for my desire to tend to some prior arrangements of mine.”

He bowed, respectfully, and she returned his gesture with a curtsy. Well, cycles did not necessarily line up often, but in an organization the size of the Scions that met so regularly, they were like to do so sooner or later. It seemed this would be one of the more delicate times to be around the Waking Sands.

“Then allow me not to detain you,” she said. “My well wishes with you, my friend.”

“And mine upon thee,” he said, his smile now extremely grateful, as he excused himself and left.

Y’shtola sighed, and shook off the wave that came over her as he passed, clearing her head. Well. This was proving to be a more trying day than even the way these sorts of days usually were.

She eschewed further pleasantries, and went to her own room. A shower, to help her feel better, and knock down some of the pheromones. A change of clothes to accomplish much the same. Some water, and some time alone, just breathing, trying not to think overmuch about anything.

Being alone during this time was always difficult, however. Lonely. Itchy. She found herself wishing for a distraction. She reconsidered finding Thancred and bending his ear. If he was amenable, it might do much to alleviate her symptoms, for a time.

Instead, her mind drifted to the thought she had had earlier in the day. Commiseration with someone else with whom she could share this exact experience just now. Making her decision, she looked herself over in the mirror, made sure she was more than presentable, and shortly, found her way to just outside Zoissette’s room.

She knocked, and the door opened just a crack. Y’shtola looked up into a single Elezen eye, that seemed to be slightly glassy.

Trick of the light, perhaps.

“Archon Y’shtola?”

“Good eve, Zoissette. I was hoping for some company this evening. As in that proverb which has much to say about misery,” she half-joked.

Zoissette opened the door a little bit further, and stuck her head out in the hallway. “Uhm. Are you certain?”

“Quite certain, unless you’ve made other arrangements?”

Y’shtola would not pry, if so. But if Zoissette had ever had even the slightest interest in mates or bonds, she had never indicated such.

“I… have not,” she said, oddly reluctant, pulling back to look behind her at something that Y’shtola could not see.

“If you wish, I might take my leave, and shall harbor no ill will towards you for such.”

“No! No. That is… that is okay. No, uhm. Please! Come, uhm, come on in,” said Zoissette, opening the door and stepping to one side.

Y’shtola walked in.

Zoissette was not in her armor for once, which was unusual. Even prior times when Y’shtola had had cause to stop by late in the eve, Zoissette had always been in her armor, even in her private quarters. An Ishgardian custom, Y’shtola had assumed. But even armor required maintenance, and Y’shtola saw it across the room, arranged out on what looked to be an alchemy table of sorts.

And she had rarely even seen the inside of Zoissette’s room, much less been in it. They were good sized quarters, as were those of all Scions. A kitchenette, with a small stove and sink. Table, with a few chairs for guests. Icebox. A few shelves for storage. A personal space, where the aforementioned armor pieces and alchemy set were, along with many bookshelves.

And two doors, one of which Y’shtola knew would lead to a bedroom, and another to a washroom. And each room, including this one, would have a window, which Zoissette now quickly ran over to open.

Y’shtola watched, curious.

“I do not mean to question my host so immediately in the eve, but to open the window at such late hour? The Ul’dah desert will grow swiftly cold in another bell or two.”

“Yes, well, uhm. You know. Uhm. I am from the North, you know. We, uhm. Like it. Cold. So! If it is alright, I would like to, uhm, leave the window open. For a while. We can close it later. Would you like some tea?”

Y’shtola took a seat at the little kitchen table, and tried to give Zoissette a reassuring smile.

“I would be best pleased at some tea, yes.”

“Good! Great,” said Zoissette, going over and putting the kettle on. She quickly set up part of the tea set for Y’shtola, keeping a tea cup for herself, and then went back to the stove, to hover near it rather than sitting with Y’shtola.

“My apologies. I seem to have caught you quite unawares.”

“No, no, it is… fine. This is fine. I understand.” Zoissette laughed, nervously. “Ah. Hormones, right? They make everything more difficult.”

Y’shtola sighed deeply. “They do indeed. I noted that you tended to spend such time alone, which I can only well imagine may be taxing. I hope company shall ease the passage of time.”

Zoissette looked over at her curiously. “You tend to spend the time alone as well.”

“Quite so. I am close with my fellow Scions, but ’tis not the same.”

“I do not understand, I do not think?”

“Well. I certainly do not know how you handle such affairs in Ishgard. But it is not uncommon for many Miqo’te of the Sun Seeker tribes to choose to find solidarity among our fellow Omes. Those who are not in heat provide what support and comfort to those who are. It is… not the same, of course, as actually mating. But physical contact and a place of belonging, of safety, can do much.”

Zoissette frowned, lightly, rubbing the back of her neck as the kettle began to steam.

“I guess it is the same in Ishgard,” she said, slowly. “Omes have their own barracks, when such an affordance can be made. Separate tents, at least, when in the field. Alaks and Bets share space. It is not a problem unless someone is in rut, and even that is just considered, you know, bonus exercise and training if they are extra stroppy about it.”

“I see. Well, then you and I are alike, in that regard. Choosing to be alone, away from home as we are. I hope, then, that you will accept my company in the spirit with which it has been offered.”

The tea kettle was now boiling, and Zoissette prepared her own cup, before beginning to set up the rest of the full tea set in front of Y’shtola on the table. Sugar, cream, the teapot itself, and the leaves with the steeper. She quickly prepared her own cup, and moved to go sit in the window sill, glancing over at the alchemy table along her way.

“I find I am glad for it,” Zoissette said, once she was seated, clasping the cup of tea with both hands, staring at it. “Thank you for thinking to keep me company. I appreciate it. And you.”

“We are long friends by now, are we not? Speaking of, if we are to spend the evening together, we might drop the formalities, if you are amenable. You may simply call me Shtola.”

“Are you sure? That would be alright?”

Y’shtola laughed. “I am quite certain. I view us as rather close comrades, now.” She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath in of her tea.

Zoissette nodded, and took a careful sip of her own tea. Again, she glanced at the alchemy set, but then settled her gaze over on Y’shtola.

“Can I ask a rude question?”

“You may.”

“Why not Thancred? Unless I have read the situation very wrong, I am pretty certain he would. Uhm. You know. Be more than happy to. Uhm.”

“Tumble with me for all we are both worth?”

“I did not want to say it outright.”

“And thus, I did. I am impressed at how a woman who knows so much vocabulary for such perverse wordplay can suddenly be so shy.”

Zoissette coughed, and Y’shtola laughed, feeling a slight tension bleed away.

“My apologies! I do tease. But heat does bring with it such awkwardness, does it not? I would cut through it. You are right, however; I might have spent the time with Thancred, true. But we have not shared such in some time. And I am finding that I feel I would prefer to be here with you instead. As I said, two women alike in distance and solitude. We can bemoan our terrible fate together, and spend the time in pleasant company. I was hoping it might soothe my humors. And, truth be told, yours as well.”

Y’shtola sipped at her tea, slowly, closing her eyes to savor the flavor and the scents. The warmth flowed through her, despite the tinge of cold beginning to enter the room, she felt as though a weight was lifted, the tension and annoyances of the days beginning to melt away.

She felt safe and comforted here.

Several long minutes in companionable silence passed, Y’shtola enjoying her tea, and Zoissette clasping hers in both hands, taking small, furtive sips. Y’shtola smiled, sympathetic. Zoissette was wearing nothing but her cotton gambeson and slops to match, which would be poor proof against Ul’dah night.

“Does it help?”

“Does what help?”

“The cold. I have heard that works for some. A distraction for nerves on edge. Or a deep ice, to melt away against the pressure of heat.”

Zoissette looked at her tea, and glanced between Y’shtola and the alchemist equipment.

“It helps,” she said.

Y’shtola nodded, and leaned back in the chair, looking up at the ceiling. “Terrible, this burden of biology that reduces so many to mere beasts. The never-ending call of nature, to the forwarding of species and generations.”

Zoissette just watched, quiet. “How do you handle it?” she asked.

“With confidence and strength. ’Tis a pull, as you know, but no more. A suggestion. It can be trying, though. But I care not to be the sort of person who yields merely because the call exists. If I do bend, it shall be of mine own will, or not at all. I suspect you to be a woman after my own heart, are you not?”

“…perhaps,” said Zoissette, quietly.

Y’shtola leaned forward, interested. “And what of you, who keeps your distance? Who even now is practically unclothed, bereft of your usual armor? I have seen how you become more tense when the heat comes upon you. How are you holding up?”

Zoissette glanced once more over at the alchemy equipment, then quickly downed her tea, and cleared her throat.

“Poorly I think. I am afraid I do not have that same confident nonchalance about the matter as you do,” she admitted, matter of fact. “And actually, if you will forgive my terrible rudeness just now. I… I think I need a shower.”

“Not at all, my friend. Take your time.”

Zoissette nodded, and abandoned her spot in the window, closing it before she quickly walked over to dispense of the last of her tea in the sink. She swanned around the room, quickly grabbing a change of clothes and the things she would need in the bath, then disappeared behind the door that led to the washroom.

Y’shtola hummed thoughtfully in her absence, understanding. She herself found that frequent showers and bathing and cleaning rituals helped through her own heat, and would not begrudge Zoissette the same. This evening had hardly been planned, after all.

She finished her tea, and set it aside, beginning to wander around the room. She knew well Zoissette’s many interests already, and was not surprised to see them represented here. Many were the bells they had wiled away, talking about aetherology, and the tools of that discipline were neatly organized in a case. Books of Nymian mathematics lined her shelves, almost as many salvaged from Nym as there were recent publications from popular journals. She smiled at an astrolabe, remembering fondly a night when Urianger had deigned to join them in a discussion on astrology.

And then there was her armor. She had almost never seen Zoissette outside of it, but here it was now. Probably just the chance night that she had removed it for the kinds of maintenance such things would need. And the alchemy equipment. Unusual, that Zoissette did not simply avail herself of the well stocked alchemy lab that existed elsewhere in the public spaces of the Waking Sands. This set appeared to be nearly finished distilling some concoction or another. Curious, Y’shtola picked up the notebook nearby, and began to flip through it.

Aetherochemistry notes. Lists of masses, reactivities, time tables, potencies. Long equations, experiment notes, theories, experiment failures and successes. Notes on samples collected from various fauna, at various points in their life and reproductive cycles.

Pheromones.

Y’shtola found herself getting lost in the notebook, now. The science of pheromones was well known, of course. Well enough known that there were many laws in place against the production of Alak pheromones and hormones that would induce or increase the rut. Society had decided, as a whole, that an Alak trying to artificially increase the fire in their blood or their supposed attractive qualities that could send Omes into heat or unduly influence them was the sort of thing that would not be tolerated. Alchemicals that suppressed heat were more accepted, but only barely, the social stigma against the one having an unfortunate knock-on effect on the acceptance of the other.

This was not that, however. Pages and pages of notes of how to possibly suppress the Alak pheromone output. Of how to adjust hormones to be more neutral in their expression. Experiments of neutralizing, of how to come to be Bet like were approached, rejected. Health concerns. Notes of how to counter, then, to instead go opposite and produce Ome hormones, of how to mimic the pheromones of an Ome in heat, were more successful, more filled out.

Ultimately it seemed to tell the story of how to hide that one was an Alak at all, and instead, for all purposes, seem to society to be an Ome.

“So now you know,” said Zoissette, her voice resigned, and Y’shtola put the notebook down quickly and turned around, startled.

Zoissette had come out of the bathroom quietly enough. She was dressed, a clean shirt and simple linen slops on, and naught else, hair still wet. She ran a hand through it now, with a forced casualness that would have fooled nobody, and moved around Y’shtola, keeping her distance, moving back to the window to open it again.

“You are an Alak,” said Y’shtola. It was not a question.

“I am,” said Zoissette, making no attempt at denying it.

Y’shtola looked back to the notebook. The alchemical set up, which had now finished its distillation, the results of its output in a flask with an applicator. The armor, set up nearby, which Y’shtola now reached for and inspected.

Soft spongy pouches in various parts of its padding. A way to keep chemicals for a few days, perhaps, the heat of the body wearing the armor causing them to become volatile, and spread slowly over time. And two layers to the padding, the sponges in the outer layer, the inner layer perhaps treated in such a way as to readily absorb oils from the skin, and suppress pheromones and smells that would otherwise make their way out.

Y’shtola looked at Zoissette, frowning.

“But why? Why hide such a thing?”

Zoissette pulled herself up into the window sill, and sat, looking out.

“I do not want to be an Alak,” she said.

“Obviously.”

“I do not like it. I did not like it, when I was a knight-captain in Ishgard. Having to break up stupid fights. Being expected to be a participant in stupid fights for trophies I did not want. Not being sure if a third of my soldiers followed me because I was right, or just because they felt like I might smell right.”

“You and I both know that smell is not even the greater part of the equation, even if we stick strictly to how people feel about one another.”

“Sure, okay, or if they thought I had a good leadership aura from my aether. Or just because Alaks are ‘meant to lead’, and look, there I was in a leadership position. Forwarding the righteous cause of the Holy See.”

“Bets and Omes also have leadership positions in most nations. Most forward thinking nations who look past the vagaries of aetherochemistry, anyroad.”

“Ishgard is not that nation. And even if it was, I also had a duty to my House, to the war. A spear is meant to sire, to do their part. And doing my part would mean siring shields and quivers for a bloody war effort that has not seen its end in generations and will not anytime soon. And! To hopefully produce a spear or two in turn, to continue the grand traditions of our sons and daughters of all modalities, more spears, more shields, more quivers. More bodies, to feed our enemies.”

Y’shtola blinked, taken aback by the unexpected bitterness in Zoissette’s tone.

“Is that why you left?” she asked. Zoissette almost always avoided talking about her home, and the Scions, Y’shtola included, had respected that.

“No. I left because my brother turned heretic. By taking responsibility and accepting exile, I spared my House the shame. And more importantly, a possibly terminal, bloody end.”

Zoissette shrank, the tenseness in her muscles causing her to pull in as the fight left her almost as quickly as it had come upon her. Instead of her shoulders going up, she tucked them in, and flexed her hands into fists in front of her.

Y’shtola glanced between her and the alchemy set.

“Then why all this? Surely you have found Eorzea more enlightened than your home.”

“Have I? You still need to sequester down in an isolated cabin space on the ferry.”

Y’shtola had no answer for that. Zoissette shook her head, and left the window, moving towards Y’shtola, but stopping a distance away.

“Please give me some space. I would like to drink my potion and re-treat my armor.”

Y’shtola, after a moment, moved out of the way.

“That is why you would not travel with me,” she said. “You were nearing the end of the efficacy of your potion.”

“Yes. And I have had some difficulty procuring some of the ingredients lately,” said Zoissette, quietly, grabbing the prepared flask.

“Hold a moment, if you kindly.”

Zoissette paused, and looked over her shoulder at Y’shtola.

“We have oft talked before, about modality and gender and society.”

Zoissette nodded, slightly. “It seems to weigh heavily on your mind whenever you are in heat. Reasonable, really,” she said, tensely. “It can be hard to think about anything else, right? Trying to maintain focus despite the hormones. Your heat. My blood fire. We may be coming at it from different starting positions, but I do understand.”

Y’shtola shook her head. “Then why continue the farce? You well understand where I stand - where all us Scions stand. We would not hold your modality against you. Nay, I would fain say we would embrace it wholly, as another part of you. Same as we already do for one another. Same as I thought we had been doing all along.”

Zoissette looked at the flask she was holding in her hand.

“I do not like it,” she said. “Maybe it was because of how I was treated in Ishgard. Maybe it is because I see the effects of it in the peoples of the society that surrounds us. But… Shtola. I do not want to be some… monster. I do not want to think about how I am influencing the minds of those around me simply by -being-. If people follow me, if they trust me, I want it to be - because they want to. Not because of some quirk of natural chemistry compelling them.”

She made a fist, grinding it into the tabletop. “And I certainly do not want to get in stupid avoidable fights with people whose minds are too clouded by blood fire to step back and allow their better sense to maybe keep them from doing something stupid.”

“You are no monster.”

“But even as we speak, I am in rut,” said Zoissette, choking slightly with the effort she was putting into controlling herself. “And look at me. You came here for companionship. What companionship can I offer, Y’shtola? I stand here, and thoughts of you drown me. I want to look into your eyes but I want to stare at your breasts. I want to talk with you, but I also want to feel your body, feel your heat. I want to touch you deeply. You are, I find you, my closest friend. And so I feel these things about you more strongly than I would any other.”

Zoissette took a deep breath in, throaty, and let it out, shuddering.

“I want to be a person, not this thing.”

Her body was tense. Her muscles, like cables. Her form, tall and imposing and powerful. Her voice, commanding and melodious. Her intent was good, but perhaps wanting. Her perspective shaped by her life.

“We are not only our modalities, but our modalities are part of us,” said Y’shtola. “You will not act in any way you do not wish, nor shall I.”

Zoissette gritted her teeth. “Is that you or the hormones talking?”

“A false dichotomy, for ’tis both. I am not separate from them, no more than I am separate from mine own hand. I control myself to my own ends, but I also allow that control at my own behest, as I wish.”

Y’shtola took a cautious step closer, and Zoissette whirled to face her, backing against the table.

“You are quick to tell me what you believe your blood sings to you,” said Y’shtola, her voice quiet, patient. “But what does Zoissette Vauban want.”

Zoissette stared, as Y’shtola stepped closer to her, one step at a time. And as she did so, Y’shtola understood what she had felt all this evening. Despite her efforts otherwise, Zoissette had been having an effect on her.

And Y’shtola had already accepted that, on some level. She still felt comfortable in this space, in her own skin, with Zoissette. She felt warm, and relaxed, and safe. She felt that close companionship she had sought, she just now fully recognized the form it was taking.

“Tell me to go, and I shall respect your wishes,” said Y’shtola. “But consider asking me to stay, and perhaps we might both reap the benefits of one another. One trusted companion to another. Comrades, through many trials and tribulations, who will carry forth through many more, no matter the outcome this night.”

Y’shtola was close, now, and she was looking up at Zoissette, and she did not see the unfocused blood heat in them, the look of a person lost in rut. But she saw a glassiness, the edges of tears.

Of someone who desperately wanted to let go, but perhaps did not know how to.

And for her part, her mind was not clouded. She was not lost in her own heat. Indeed, her mind had rarely felt so clear, so sharp, so close to what it was she wanted.

Zoissette put the flask down behind her. Her movements slow, deliberate. Her jaw was tight.

“I pretended to be something I am not,” she said.

“And yet you are who you have been, this entire time, simply being you,” said Y’shtola.

Zoissette’s breathing was deep, rough.

“How could you want this? With me?”

“How could I not?”

“Are you certain?”

“I am. How certain are you?”

Zoissette swallowed, dryly.

“Would you stay if I asked?”

“I would stay if not turned away. You must believe that I want to be here.”

“I do,” said Zoissette. And then, “I want you.”

“Then take me,” said Y’shtola, her voice throaty with need.

The speed with which Zoissette moved, the fierceness with which she grabbed Y’shtola shocked her, and she folded into the motion, feeling herself go limp, almost as though boneless, as Zoissette’s mouth was at hers, pressing hotly against her lips. Y’shtola moaned, immediately opening her mouth, inviting her in, and Zoissette’s tongue was quick to take the invitation. Y’shtola was in the air, Zoissette pulling her up by her ass with one hand, as another hand pressed the back of her neck, bringing them together, forcing them close, holding her tight. She shivered, at the excitement, at the suddenness of it, her tail curling tightly up of its own volition.

Y’shtola was helpless before the force that was Zoissette, and her heart soared, her blood pumping furiously, rushing in her ears, and Zoissette was eager, hungry, ravenous. She forced Y’shtola to the ground, though Y’shtola was going willingly.

A hand, now pawing at the front of her blouse, between their bodies, groping her breast. Zoissette’s weight almost crushing Y’shtola, as she parted her legs to allow Zoissette’s thigh to press against her crotch. Their breathing, hot, heavy, hard, as one. Y’shtola whimpered, and reached up, to try and wrap her arms around Zoissette, to hold her closer.

Zoissette stopped, and pushed herself up to her knees, before grabbing Y’shtola’s wrists to pin them to the floor. Y’shtola could still feel her knee in her crotch. She could hear her breath. She could smell her, so close. She could feel her presence, the pressure of who she was, bearing down on her, pushing her down, and despite that, Y’shtola felt as though she was soaring.

Eyes, intense, bored into her own, but could not hold her gaze as she returned the stern look with a small coy smile, as she swept her own gaze over the tightness in Zoissette’s jaw, and wandered down to her exquisite collarbones, as she admired the power in Zoissette’s arm muscles, so close. She gave a token squirm, to struggle against the hands holding her wrists. Only just enough to make obvious her interest.

And despite being pinned, she had more than enough leverage to move her hips and grind down against that knee, still present in her crotch.

“This is what I am,” said Zoissette. “Do you still want this?”

Y’shtola closed her eyes slowly, rolling her eyes back as she did so, the slowness of the motions of her head and face a sharp contrast to the way her hips wanted to buck strongly, the way she tried to get her foot to hook against Zoissette’s thigh and make increase that pressure against her center.

“I have never wanted anything more,” she purred.

Zoissette panted.

And then her hands were free, Zoissette sitting up, pulling her shirt off. Y’shtola was torn momentarily, trying to decide what she wanted more. She reached for Zoissette’s waist, but her hands were slapped away as Zoissette stood up quickly, and turned around, removing her pants herself. Bra and smalls were quick to follow, and Y’shtola would waste no more time there, sitting up enough to discard her own clothing.

Pants were tossed to one side and shirt halfway off before it was torn off the rest of the way by Zoissette. And then she was in the air again, Zoissette carrying her roughly, as though she was just a luggage. She took the opportunity to cling tightly to Zoissette, to rake fingernails down exposed shoulder blades while she peppered her collarbone with kisses, wrapping her legs around her.

She was dumped unceremoniously on her back onto the bed. Zoissette grabbed at the waist of her smalls, and practically growled as she tore them off, ripping them down her legs and throwing them to one side, before following her, crawling onto the bed, crawling on top of her. Y’shtola held her hands above her head, and just lay there, breathless, waiting, anticipating. Zoissette pushed her knee into her crotch once more, more forcefully this time, and Y’shtola opened her thighs to grind against it. Zoissette was bent over her, hands at her bra, unclasping it, pulling it off nearly as roughly as she had handled her smalls, and threw it to the side.

They were both fully nude, now. Zoissette took the offering of her hands for what it was, grabbing one wrist and then the other, and pinning Y’shtola to the bed with one hand. Her other hand went to a breast, and Zoissette now hungrily took its nipple into her mouth, lips clamped on tight, tongue attacking its tip without mercy. Y’shtola squirmed and thrashed, feeling as though her feelings were flooding her, turbulent waves roaring through her, crashing into one another as she gasped to keep her head above water. Zoissette continued to make almost animal-like noises as she attacked her, mauling her breasts, straining at her body.

After a while, Zoissette stopped, panting from the exertion. Y’shtola gasped in deep breaths, her entire body a single nerve, raw and alight.

“Please, please, please,” she begged. “More, I want more.”

Zoissette looked deep into her eyes, and then grabbed her jaw, holding her head as she leaned in, other hand still pinning her down, and she kissed her, deep, hungry, ravenous, wanting. Their tongues writhed as they breathed in one another, as though their essence was connected through the heat of their mouths.

And then she pulled back again. Y’shtola tried to follow, but could only go so far with her hands pinned as they were, and she whimpered at the loss, at the sudden cold sensation of her lover’s lips being denied her. She looked up at Zoissette, watching her face, shivering as Zoissette’s eyes wandered, taking her all in.

“You would make a lady beg?” she asked, her voice shaky.

Zoissette pulled back a little bit, moving away while keeping her pinned, her knee leaving the space between Y’shtola’s thighs it had been occupying. Y’shtola felt a wave of dismay. Had they truly come so far, only to fall short at this last moment?

And then Zoissette repositioned herself, her whole body instead of just a knee between Y’shtola’s thighs, now. Y’shtola could not help but watch, helpless. Wholly at her mercy. Even if she wanted to, she was not certain she could have done anything otherwise. Zoissette was strong. And oh, how she wanted to reach out, to run hands down those arms, to place palms against those abdominals.

“I would make a lady scream,” said Zoissette, reaching down between them, and then she was inside, deft fingers deep inside Y’shtola’s most delicate place.

Y’shtola saw stars, and she yowled, throaty, wanton. In that instant she wanted the entire star to know she was being taken, that she was being roughly handled by this monster of a woman. That Zoissette was with her, and that she was hers, and that she belonged to her. She continued, gasping, her chest heaving with every breath, and as she let one breath out, her nipple was once more in a mouth.

Zoissette continued her not so tender ministrations, and Y’shtola had never wanted so much as she wanted now. She fought against Zoissette, not to try and throw her off, but just to fight, just to reach further for that highest high, to try to get Zoissette deeper. And the way Zoissette’s fingers were deep in her, the way she could feel Zoissette grinding against her, the way she imagined Zoissette’s clit in her mind’s eye, swollen and engorged.

The way Zoissette was beginning to spasm above her.

“Claim me!” she cried out to the stars. “I would be yours!”

Zoissette’s breathing, deep and throaty, as she came up from her breast. Zoissette’s breath, hot on her throat. Zoissette, as she finally let go of her wrists, to hold herself steady.

Zoissette’s teeth, at last, sharp on her skin, as she bit down. Zoissette’s essence, as she let go. Y’shtola’s hands, as they clung to her, and they clung to one another, as Y’shtola sang their song to the stars and Zoissette cried out her pleasure, muffled as it was by her flesh in between her teeth, but cried out still, in singularly blissful accompaniment.

Zoissette and Y’shtola, in that moment, as one.

~*~

Travel could be so difficult.

Zoissette was in a rush, pushing her way through the crowds of Limsa Lominsa. She would not be late, by any stretch of the imagination, but her tasks here were done, and she wished to be at the pier as fast as possible. She talked quickly to the bookkeeper, confirming her passage was already secured, and quickly made her way out to the pier, looking around.

The crowd was fairly typical, porters and borders, sailors and dock workers. She made her way to where would-be travelers would be gathering to take the ferry, and she saw who she was looking for, surrounded by a gaggle of people. As she got close, some of them turned to give her a gentle glare, but the rest seemed to be paying attention to a woman in the center of the group.

A woman who now spotted her, turned, and smiled.

“Kindly make way for my husband,” said Y’sthola warmly, who lifted a hand to wave at Zoissette. The group now turned to look at Zoissette, many of them more kindly than before, as they parted to give her space.

“Oh, I can see it now!” “The babe has her father’s eyes.” “And hair.” “That explains the darkness of her skin!” “Oh, and look, they have their father’s nose!”

Y’shtola just smiled wryly, turning to face Zoissette, her child at her breast, feeding peacefully enough despite being the center of attention.

“Hello, dearest,” said Y’shtola, before looking down and smoothing over her baby’s hair.

“I came as fast as I could manage,” said Zoissette. She smiled shyly at the crowd, and wiggled her fingers at them in something kind of like a wave.

“Oh, look at how tall and beautiful she is,” said one Miqo’te, an Ome who, from the feel of it, was nearing their cycle time.

Y’shtola just rolled her eyes as the babe finished. She loosened the sling a bit, pulling them free. “Take them for a moment, would you?”

Zoissette just nodded dumbly, being careful as Y’shtola transferred the sling over to her. She settled it, and smiled down at the baby, rocking them gently against herself.

“I can take them for more than a moment. You have had them all day,” she said.

“You just want to spend more time with our child when they aren’t screaming,” said Y’shtola warmly, her words without temper.

“Look at how careful she is. She’s got the makings of a great father,” said a nearby Lalafell, nudging Zoissette in the thigh and giving Y’shtola a wink. Zoissette just blushed, while Y’shtola frowned in annoyance as she tucked her breast back into her dress.

“And so strong, too. I bet your child will be magnificent when they get older,” opined another Miqo’te, reaching out a hand to touch Zoissette’s arm.

“Tall, beautiful, strong, and mine,” said Y’shtola, a touch sharply, and the woman immediately pulled her hand back, clasping her hands behind her back and bowing her head, looking appropriately abashed.

“Oooh selfish selfish, keeping such a treasure to yourself!” said one of the others, which elicited some small nervous scattered laughter from among the crowd. Y’shtola sighed, her ears beginning to fold back.

A laugh came from nearby, and everyone turned to look at a Roegadyn man, sitting on a box of crates, a long pipe in his hand. He grinned at them, and waved his pipe in their general direction. “You’d have better luck fishing in other waters, my friendly Omes. Look at them! Can’t you tell? Can’t you feel it? They’re not just mated, they’re bonded.”

The group murmured.

“Oh, that explains so much.” “What did you -think- she meant by husband?” “Well I don’t know! Can’t blame a guy for holding out hope! I mean, look at her!” “He’s right, he’s so right, I don’t know how I didn’t notice before.”

The same Lalafell still at Zoissette’s side grinned up at her, and gave her a bow. “Good luck and congratulations on your impeccable taste, good madam.”

“Thank you,” said Zoissette, smiling, before turning her attention back to the baby in her arms. Everything that she had heard while walking up was true. The baby had most of Zoissette’s features, same color hair, same color eyes that now gazed up curiously, watching the clouds in the sky.

But it was not solely her in there. Their skin was not nearly so dark as her own, though it was definitely darker than Y’shtola’s. And the baby had Y’shtola’s stripe pattern and ears. This one would be growing up, not as an Elezen, but as a Miqo’te.

They sneezed, and Zoissette laughed. The crowd continued to ooh and awe and fawn over child and couple, though now with rather less pointed attention at Zoissette. Which she was glad for. She gently stuck a pinky near the baby, and wiggled it, delighted when the child reached out and gripped it tightly.

Y’shtola looped her arm around Zoissette’s, and leaned against her.

Nearby, a dockworker’s voice began to boom out boarding instructions. “Alright! Prepare for boarding! You all know how this works!” they began.

Y’shtola bumped Zoissette’s hip with her own, gently.

“That will be us, then,” said Y’shtola. “Care to share a space?”

Zoissette frowned at her, feeling confused.

“How else would we travel?” she asked, and Y’shtola just laughed.

The porters began to gather luggage, and arm in arm, Zoissette and Y’shtola boarded the ferry with their little plus one. A small little family, new, but they both took joy in it. As this was something they both wanted.

[driftward]

Another lovely comm from @benveydraws, featuring Zoissette Vauban and Y'shtola Rhul! I wonder what they're talking about?

commission for @driftward ・✧

[driftward]

3) fully clothed x stark naked

For witchshield please!

For witchshield? Well, what can I do but oblige. Still making my way through the inbox, and as usual, the work is beneath the cut. Content warning: explicit sex happens

~*~

Y’shtola stepped out of the washroom, having finished her bath, still toweling herself dry. As she began to head towards the bedroom where her clothes were, she happened to look over and see Zoissette, not at all subtly pretending to be spying on her over the top of the book she was supposedly reading. Her eyes trailed slowly from Y’shtola’s head to her toes and back, before locking eyes with Y’shtola and pretending to have just been caught, moving the book up to hide her face.

Y’shtola stopped, and just laughed, crossing her arms to lean against the door frame.

“Will you never tire of these antics?”

“I am certain I do not know what you mean. Also, no.”

Y’shtola just shook her head. “It is well that I enjoy your attentions, but I feel I must needs point out that you see me near every day.”

Zoissette set the book aside, and held out a hand towards Y’shtola. Y’shtola pushed off the doorframe, setting the towel aside, and sauntered over, still nude, to where Zoissette was laying on the couch.

“I see the same ocean, the same mountains, the same plains, for days, sennights, moons in many places,” said Zoissette. “Every day, they are the same in the usual ways I expect. But also every day, they’re a little different. Usually in predictable ways. Sometimes in surprising ways. And every day, they are beautiful, too. So why not you?”

Y’shtola’s smile grew softer as she came close, taking Zoissette’s hands and moving to straddle her on the couch, sitting on her knees, her weight just below Zoissette’s ribs.

“You become poetic when you are feeling sentimental.”

Zoissette ran her hands gently up Y’shtola’s sides, from hip to arm and back down, detouring enough to flutter fingers on the counter of her breasts. “I am always poetic. I just usually keep it to myself. Nobody likes a boor.”

Y’shtola leaned forward a little to place her hands on Zoissette’s stomach. “As though I could ever find you such. But pray tell, what little ways do you see of me?”

Zoissette’s face softened. “Grace. Confidence. That you do not need me to tell me you that you are beautiful.” She picked up one of Y’shtola’s hands in her own, gently pressing a thumb into the palm. “That you move like a dream. That you stand straight and tall, in the face of every challenge. Intelligent, strong, every day, my Shtola.”

Y’shtola let out a little pleased ‘hmn!’. “And what of those things which change?”

“I think you are friendlier than you used to be. No, that is not quite it. More open, perhaps?”

“Such as I have learned from you.”

Zoissette let go, and ran her hand up Y’shtola’s arm, coming to cup her hand against a cheek. “Have you?”

“I am still wont to keep my own counsel, in the end.”

“And I would have it no other way, and could not even if I wanted to. Ever willful Y’shtola Rhul.”

Y’shtola laughed, and ran her fingers up Zoissette’s chest a little. “As if you did not know me well enough by now, and if you could not accept such, more the fool you.”

“But I do.”

“But you do, and so all is well.”

Zoissette rubbed Y’shtola’s cheek a little. Her eyes crinkled a little in wry amusement. “The gentle touch of time. The fine lines of crow’s feet,” and her other hand traced Y’shtola’s side, “some wrinkles for taste.”

Y’shtola huffed, annoyed, her ears folding back slightly as she now sat back and began to cross her arms. Zoissette sat up a bit, her reach giving chase.

“Well now. Perhaps I ought to be insulted.”

“No, no. Hear me out.”

Y’shtola frowned, but did not move further, and Zoissette reached around her. She smiled, an apologetic thing, as her fingers found the base of Y’shtola’s tail, and began to gently massage the sensitive muscles that existed where tail became spine.

“You are attempting to change the subject by mollifying me,” said Y’shtola, her voice going low, as her eyes half-fluttered shut seemingly of their own accord. Behind her, her tail waved back and forth.

“Mollify, a little bit. But, no. I do not want to change the subject. I want to be serious, for a moment.”

Y’shtola looked into Zoissette’s eyes, and she saw an unusual sternness in them.

“We are not young, Shtola. Nor are we yet old, but we do both near our fourth tenyear. I know you have your vanity-”

Y’shtola huffed.

“-and you have your ways. Forever twenty summers, indeed.”

“Merely guidance to live a life well.”

“Yes. I know. We have talked about it before. But we can maintain that vigor, that wonder of youth, and also accept that we are aging.”

“I am in no hurry to join Matoya as a wizened old crone.”

“And yet in Matoya’s countenance, the evidence of life lived. Rather than regret that we are no longer young, I want to celebrate that we are still alive. And I want to see the evidence of that, as it develops. I want… I want to see the lines on your face grow deep. The seasons of the shieldmaiden, as trees turn with the star, as the sands of time flow.”

“I am in no hurry to rush forward and meet the future.”

“Neither am I, but I do want to accept it, as it meets us.”

Deft fingers continued to massage Y’shtola’s tail muscles, and she had to admit, it was very nice. The feeling was radiating out from there, just a plain sense of simple pleasantness, flowing through her body. She uncrossed her arms so they could support her as she leaned forward.

“You call it vanity, but I maintain my appearance for myself and none other. I exult in it, as it is not only a celebration of myself, but a demonstration of my skill in living my life as I see fit.”

“I know. I am not talking about trying to please the eyes of others, but being satisfied with what we see ourselves. You are beautiful to me, and I do not think that will ever change. I do not think that it can.”

Zoissette flexed her fingers, now, scratching. Y’shtola curved her back into it, and made a soft, satisfied noise, bringing her hands forward, to knead gently at Zoissette’s chest.

“And there is still much here to exult in yet,” said Y’shtola.

“I never said there was not. In fact, I think I am trying to say the opposite. I celebrate it, all of it.”

Zoissette dropped her hands, to cup Y’shtola’s ass on either side with a squeeze. Y’shtola walked her hands up, up Zoissette’s chest. She pulled herself forward, until she could comfortably lean on Zoissette’s shoulders.

Gods, she was so much muscle.

“And though our lives are joined now, our early experiences were very different,” said Zoissette, her voice not quite unhappy, but definitely quiet. “I was dead in my twenties, Shtola. Killed in my thirties.” Zoissette shifted, fingers back in the cluster of tail muscles, now, and Y’shtola arched her back, feeling fingerprints of pressure push deep against her muscle. She murred, and the end of her tail twitched with the luxury of attention. “Only as I see my fourth tenyear do I feel like I am remembering to age again.”

Y’shtola placed a hand gently on Zoissette’s cheek, and pushed herself forward, again, this time far enough she had to crawl a bit, until she could comfortably bring the two of them together, and gave her the gentlest and softest of kisses, slow, tender.

One of Zoissette’s hands wandered up the side of her stomach, and fingers played along a breast. Y’shtola made a gentle noise of appreciation.

They separated, and Y’shtola played her fingers through Zoissette’s hair as Zoissette treated her with a small smile.

“You have near made your case,” she said, gently tapping Zoissette on the nose. “Long though our path has been, and not without difficulty. You would remember our age. I would remind you of what vigor you yet have.”

“The two are not exclusive.”

Y’shtola’s tail swayed, slow. Carefully.

“Prove it.”

Zoissette laughed, and pulled Y’shtola down, and they kissed, once more. Y’shtola, bare and naked in the air, Zoissette still in her outfit of the day. Zoissette placed her hands on Y’shtola’s bottom, and pulled her gently, even as Zoissette tried to move herself further down the couch. It took a few moments for them to figure one another out, but shortly Zoissette was rather more directly beneath Y’shtola, and Y’shtola was nearly sitting on Zoissette’s face.

Zoissette’s hands moved to Y’shtola’s hips, strong and firm, and she positioned her to exactly where she wanted her to be. Y’shtola, her legs bent, on her knees so she could more easily control how much weight she brought to bear, allowed herself to be lowered.

And then the kiss, lips meeting. Y’shtola used one arm to steady herself, and the other hand she reached up, to cup her own breast, to knead her fingers into its flesh while Zoissette’s tongue explored her crevasse.

It was quiet in the room. This was not, despite their banter, a moment of vigor and heat. Passion, to be sure, but a slow, patient passion, as Zoissette’s head mouth tongue lips made slow, carefully measured movements. A long slow lick against the labia. The firm push of lips. A kiss to the clitoral hood before retreating again. Y’shtola lifted her head, closing her eyes, facing heaven, while she tried to buck her hips against Zoissette. But despite the far superior leverage she should have been able to exercise, it was Zoissette who was controlling the experience. The firm grip of her hands and press of her fingers informing Y’shtola where she wanted her, and Y’shtola obliging willingly.

A long, slow way of making love. Zoissette only periodically having to tilt her head back to take a breath, before plunging in again. Y’shtola feeling the building of the waves, beginning to push back a bit more, and Zoissette letting her, letting go of control. Y’shtola bucking her hips further. Curling over herself. A moment of not knowing what to do with her hands. Take Zoissette’s hair in them? Take control of stimulating her own clit with her fingers? Keep a hand free to maintain her balance?

None of it mattered, and all of it was lost, as the first full wave pulsed up through her spine and was released from her mouth, as she cried out. In the end, she kept her balance by pressing her fingers through Zoissette’s hair, fingers intwined and tips bearing into her scalp as though her life depended on it, and perhaps it did.

She took several deep gasps, finding herself again, and Zoissette pushed her hips up just a bit, tilting her head so she could breath, so she could speak.

“This is a terrible way to continue a conversation,” she said.

Y’shtola laughed breathlessly. “Are you certain? I fair believe you have made quite the convincing argument.”

“Hmn,” said Zoissette. “Closing statements.”

She pulled her back down, and Y’shtola almost pushed off of her just to be an imp about the matter. But then her tongue was in her again, and oh, the talent that tongue had. Experienced, it knew Y’shtola well.

And while it was strong, and its initial foray eager, it quickly slowed, showing patience, stamina, determination. All those qualities that Y’shtola loved in Zoissette, and loved in their love-making, and it was not long until her eyes were rolled back and she was riding the building pressure again. Zoissette was taking her time, going slow, but not allowing it to ebb at all. Meeting small not quite waves, building them up, and letting them out slow.

The next wave was a crash, and Y’shtola was near certain this one had killed her. As it subsided, and she could hear Zoissette gasping for breath beneath her once more, she allowed herself to be free, to lose herself, to laugh in a moment of true openness.

She let go of Zoissette’s hair, and this time, she did push away, and Zoissette let her go. She shifted, to use Zoissette as a bed, and held herself tight against her, still giggling between breaths.

Zoissette petted a hand through her hair. “I did not think I was that funny,” she said.

Y’shtola just shook her head. “Forgive me, I know not what comes over me,” she said. But she was still smiling, as she rested her head on Zoissette’s chest. “Perhaps it is the culmination of this argument, and the proof is not merely in your words but in your tongue. Perhaps it is the practice that comes with age - and in putting it to use, you make me feel so young.”

Zoissette kissed the top of her head, and she curled up.

“Or mayhaps it is that I must needs shower, again, as someone interrupted me on my way to finding my clothes.”

“I apologise,” said Zoissette. She did not sound at all apologetic.

Y’shtola brought up a hand, to walk two fingers up Zoissette’s chest. “Well. I am not sure I am fully convinced. But, I think on one thought, we can agree.”

She pushed herself up, and looked down at Zoissette, running a hand through her hair fondly.

“I look forward to growing old with you.”

Zoissette pulled Y’shtola’s hand out of her hair so that she could turn her head and kiss its palm.

“That is all I can ask.”

“You may ask for that, and still more. And I may yet deliver it to you.”

“Thank you.”

“Always. Now, though, I find that as this bliss fades a bit, I am rather cold, and shall be taking that wash. This time, might you let me actually get to my clothes?”

“Maybe.”

Y’shtola laughed, a youthful, joyful thing, and she pulled herself off Zoissette, and headed to the washroom.