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scionshtola · 2 days ago

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take our time with the sweet delay

summary: Y'shtola is more than a little relieved to finally have a moment alone with Corisande, and is determined to make it last. pairing: Corisande Ymir/Y'shtola Rhul word count: 1826 | rated: E | read on ao3 notes: i posted this to ao3 last year but never here, so i thought i would cross post it finally. it's set during the post-shb patches, minor shb spoilers for a side character and location. [divider credit]

Y’shtola glances around her quarters, expecting to find the other Scions where she left them hours ago, before she had made the rounds in Slitherbough. Surprisingly, the room is empty aside from Corisande, sitting cross-legged on the floor with their head bent over a book, before one of the haphazard piles of tomes she has let build up around the room. She pulls the doors shut behind her with a sigh of relief, the sound drawing their attention.

“I was starting to think you would never return,” they tease, expression breaking into a smile when they see her. The sight is enough to lift her mood, lightening the tension in her shoulders that had built up as the day went on.

“‘Twould seem I underestimated just how many of the Night’s Blessed wished to speak with me tonight.” Y’shtola takes a moment to unlace her boots, kicking them off by the door before making her way to their side. She cups Corisande’s cheek, sweeping her thumb across their warm skin, careful to avoid their face paint. “Your patience appears to have outlasted that of our friends.”

“I may have sent them out,” they say. They catch her wrist, turning their face to kiss the palm of her hand before rising to their feet. “Alphinaud was lugging quite an armful of books when he left, though, so he cannot be far.”

Y’shtola hums in approval, leaning against Corisande, pleased at the idea of them sending everyone away to spend a moment with her. They never seem to have enough time for just the two of them, never a moment without a question that needs answering, a problem that needs solving, or someone waiting in the wings to ask for their help.

But for tonight, it seems there is nothing so pressing it could not wait until the morrow.

She cranes her neck, peering up at them. “Why must you be so damnably tall?” she says, half-teasing, though at the moment their height is a great impediment to her desire to feel Corisande’s smile with her own. Even were she to stand on her toes, she could not reach their lips with hers.

“Is there something you want?” Corisande asks, as sweet and innocent as ever, though she catches the slight smirk in their smile as they curl their fingers under Y’shtola’s chin.

Y’shtola has no qualms about saying the words. She has waited years for the chance to do so, and delights in saying them whenever she could. “Kiss me.”

Corisande does not hesitate to oblige, tilting her chin and pressing their lips eagerly to hers. Y’shtola slides her fingers into their hair, deepening the kiss, gasping against their mouth when they lift her swiftly and easily into their arms.

“Better,” Corisande murmurs against her lips. She wraps her legs around their waist, the skirt of her dress pooling around her thighs as she pulls herself closer. Corisande guides them to the nearest wall, pressing Y’shtola’s back into the cool stone, and shifts her grip, leaving one hand free to wander over her torso, feather light along her side. Her head tips back against the wall when they cup her breast, a soft moan escaping her.

Corisande kisses their way down Y’shtola’s jaw, a line down the side of her neck, as they loosen the laces on the front of her dress. She shivers slightly as their fingertips trail delicately down the length of her spine, catching in the knot that pulls her bodice together and tugging it free.

Y’shtola’s dress slips, gathering around her elbows, the cool air of the cave on her breasts quickly countered by the heat of Corisande’s mouth. It amazes her still, how right the press of their bodies feels, how deep her desire for them has grown. The need that drives her to pull them closer only burns hotter with every touch, every kiss that passes between them.

They shift again, carrying Y’shtola across the room while she presses kisses against their neck.

“You are aware I have a bed just through that door, yes?” she teases between kisses when they set her on the long wooden table. Corisande ignores the question, her lips marking a path down Y’shtola’s body. Her breath catches in her chest when they kneel before her and lift her leg over their shoulder. Almost too eagerly, she gathers her skirt around her waist while they trail soft kisses along the inside of her thigh, and all thoughts are driven from her mind when they press a hot, open-mouthed kiss against her center.

Y’shtola falls onto her elbows, her eyes fluttering shut as the feel of Corisande nearly overwhelms her. Her tongue moves over her, inside her, circling her clit in a rhythm that draws forth an unsteady stream of quiet curses and moans. She strokes the outside of Y’shtola’s thigh softly, the touch searing against her already heated skin.

A knock sounds on the door, only breaking through the haze of Y’shtola’s mind because Corisande pulls away.

“Do you want to get that?” They sound sincere enough that Y’shtola opens her eyes to look at them.

“Do I want to what?” She is far too distracted by the sight before her—Corisande looking up at her, lips swollen, hair in disarray from where Y’shtola had tangled her fingers in it—to process the question. They laugh and with a shrug, duck their head, and soon the simple heat of their mouth on her skin is enough to make Y’shtola forget the interruption entirely.

She closes her eyes, lost in the glide and press of Corisande’s tongue, in the heat blooming low in her belly, in—

The knock comes again. Y’shtola huffs, a powerful annoyance surging through her. Had it truly been so foolish to hope for one night alone? For one night of reprieve from the never ending duties and expectations set before them?

But Corisande does not seem deterred. She kisses Y’shtola slower, deeper, driving her ever closer toward the edge. Y’shtola cups her own breast for the need to be touched, for the hope that together they could reach her peak before—

“Oh, what is it?” She snaps, breathless, as the knock sounds again. Corisande ignores the knock, slips her fingers inside Y’shtola, curls them in a way that has her biting back a moan.

“’Tis Runar, Master Matoya,” a deep voice rumbles from the other side of the door.

“Who?” Y’shtola asks on a gasp, elicited by Corisande’s lips closing over her swollen, sensitive clit. They tuck their laugh into the crease of her thigh, smirking against her skin.

“Runar,” the voice repeats, apparently undeterred. “I apologize for disturbing you—”

“Mayhaps you could—could give me a moment, Runar?” She tries to keep her voice steady, no mean feat when Corisande offers her no reprieve. “Or two?”

Any answer he might have given is blocked out by the clever twist of Corisande’s fingers against her walls, their lips against her skin. They grip her thigh just tight enough to hold her still while she writhes, their name slipping past her lips in a whimper. With no more interruptions to be had, ‘tis easy for Y’shtola to lose herself in their touch, crying out when they finally push her over the edge.

They kiss her softly until she stills, then rise to their feet to press their mouth to hers. Their lips are slick, their hands soft as they caress her arms and chest, and Y’shtola revels in the feel of it before gripping the lapels of their top and pulling them onto the table with her. Corisande straddles her, and her hands move over them, seeking the warmth of their bare skin. She slides her hand under their top, toys with the edge of their thigh-high socks, slips her hand past the waist of their shorts. She wants to touch— needs to touch, to draw out the same soft gasps and moans they had drawn from her, to see the look on her face as Y’shtola guides her toward her peak.

Corisande squeezes her shoulder and Y’shtola stills. “Should you see what Runar wants?”

She sounds just as sincere as she had earlier, and Y’shtola cannot help the teasing smile that spreads across her lips. “I did not think you would care for what Runar wants.”

“I happen to care a lot for what Runar wants,” Corisande says, a rare edge to her voice, a tiny indicator of who they are to each other now that pleases Y’shtola. “Was my demonstration just now not clear enough?”

Y’shtola smiles, wider when she moves her fingers lightly between their legs and their eyes fall shut. “Quite clear.”

“I just mean that he might come back,” she says between kisses, a little breathless. Y’shtola feels, rather than sees, her smirk as she adds, “What would he say, if he heard the way his precious Master Matoya cursed while I pleasured her?”

Y’shtola’s fingers brush over their clit, and they gasp into their kiss. “If he returned now, ‘twould not be me that he heard cursing.”

Corisande offers no further argument, leaning forward and capturing Y’shtola’s mouth in another kiss. She smiles when their hips grind down, seeking the pressure of her hand. Y’shtola’s teeth graze their bottom lip, tugging lightly as she pulls away.

“However, you may be correct in assuming he will return,” she says, guiding Corisande off her lap so she could stand. Her expression fell, and Y’shtola’s heart nearly broke as she watched her gather herself, disappointment quickly turning into acceptance and understanding. “‘Twould not do for him to overhear.”

“Of course not. Mayhaps when we return home,” they start, a familiar hopefulness to their tone that Y’shtola so loved. They open their mouth to continue, but fall silent when Y’shtola meets their gaze and lets her dress slip from her arms.

Y’sthola has a catalog in her mind of all the ways Corisande has looked at her over the years—the silent, knowing looks exchanged; the fond smiles; the teasing quirk of their lips; the occasional worried glances. But the way her eyes trail over Y’shtola’s figure, the heat and love in their gaze when they linger on her curves, on the sway of her breasts as she shimmies her dress over her waist, is still new. She delights in it still, this simple declaration that Corisande wants her the way she wants them. That they love her the way she loves them.

She steps out of her dress and reaches for Corisande’s hand, linking their fingers together. Their time together is a rare and precious resource to Y’shtola, and she is unwilling to let it slip through her fingers so easily. “’Tis time we made use of the actual bedroom, then.”

The grin on Corisande’s face is enough to convince her—she will make their moment alone last. Everyone on the other side of the door will just have to wait.

#actually i will reblog. <3 #me the person who wrote this: wow i’m obsessed with them #srb

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