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Golden light shines through the cracks of linen curtains as the Limsa Lominsan sun rises over the Mist. Aiisa’s bedroom doesn’t catch the full force of the sunrise’s glare, but a rogue reflection off her wardrobe—more accurately, her weapon showcase—urges her to rise.
She stirs awake. It’s only been in recent times that Aiisa Vitreis can honestly say she gets a regular night’s sleep. Waking up used to be more like giving up on sleeping . She props herself up, rolling her sore shoulders and gazing around her bedroom. Moving in with K’viri, gaining possession over her own room—it’s so foreign, a place being hers —and now having to decorate it with things has been a challenge. The decoration largely consists of various weapons in Aiisa’s arsenal, whether in-use or retired. Armor, spears, shields, halberds, glaives. They’re all on display, cared-for and orderly.
Aiisa likes order. It’s comforting. It’s nice to have a space that’s not chaotic like the whirlwind of her thoughts, or the nonstop turning tides of the Scions’ endeavors.
Her morning routine—another novelty—is also quite comforting. K’viri’s door is still closed (as is usual, she’s not nearly as much of an early riser); Aiisa makes her way upstairs. Their home is small, but it has everything the Xaela needs, really. The angled skylights wash their living space in plenty of morning sun, casting shadows from various plants both potted and hanging.
Aiisa makes her way to the kitchenette, filling a kettle with water and setting it to boil. She retrieves a jar of coffee beans, always recently purchased fresh, from the top shelf. Quietly as possible, she pulses two servings’ worth in a grinder—Garlean make, one of the quality ones that work with a press of a button—before preparing a carafe with a new filter. Every piece of the puzzle, every part of her routine: perfectly mapped to muscle memory, executed with the same precision as a well-practiced and patient riposte.
Before long, she’s left with her labor’s rewards: a kitchen that smells like the seventh heaven and a ceramic mug from said heaven. Still, something feels off. Missing. Aiisa glances towards the carafe, still left with another girl’s serving of nectar.
Without another thought, the Xaela works her way downstairs. K’viri’s door is just next to the lower floor’s landing; though typically, Aiisa would find it cracked open with noises from the bathroom around the corner. She knocks.
“Viri?”
No response. Aiisa knocks again.
“Stray—Coffee?”
She sighs. Though she would never admit it, the morning doesn’t feel right without the mess of a Miqo’te she calls a girlfriend. And besides, K’viri should be awake by now—so she opens the door. Gently.
K’viri’s east-facing windows drown her bedroom in far more light than Aiisa’s. It’s a gorgeous effect, in truth, perfectly matching the girl’s sunny disposition. This girl’s space is far messier than Aiisa’s; her furniture is never quite aligned, her desk is cluttered with notebooks, maps, various satchels, and her floor is covered with the previous night’s—no, nights, plural—clothing. K’viri’s comforts come from letting go—while Aiisa’s come from keeping something together.
Aiisa lets the door swing open. A smile dawns on her lips, eyes taking in the sight of the Seeker sleeping in a position exactly as messy as the surrounding bedroom. She’s on her back, arms spread to either side, one underneath her pillow. Her hair falls lazily across her face, all in disarray except the few braids she didn’t bother taking out. In her sleep, she kicked all her bedsheets away and onto the floor.
So, all-in-all, an unkempt sleeper. It’s charming in a way Aiisa can’t quite put to words, though the way she smiles as she looks at her partner’s resting face says more than enough.
The moment passes, and Aiisa’s gaze travels below the catgirl’s face. The loose tank top she wore to bed has worked its way up her torso, showing off her lithe-yet-toned stomach and draping around her oversized tits in a way that’d make marble sculptures jealous. Even with something so light, she got too hot in her sleep. Cute.
She muses on whether or not to wake the girl up.
Instead, she allows herself one—just one—single indulgence.
Aiisa’s eyes drift to the dark, intimate mass between the sleeping girl’s thighs. She almost stops herself, but… K’viri hasn’t woken up yet; she didn’t wake to the knocking, and she didn’t wake to being called. So… she can stare. She’s running no risk of being found out, she tries to convince herself. Twelve forbid her partner find her staring.
The thick, wrinkled thing is so… unbecoming of the pretty, gentle girl who bears it. Aiisa’s nostrils flare, her senses picking up the Seeker’s unwashed scent that stains her bedroom. It feels like her brain blocks it out most of the time, but now that she’s thought about it, it’s impossible to ignore. It’s like some sort of divine comedy, how particularly unfitting that bestial cock is on a surface level. The ray of sunshine and warmth that is K’viri has a primal side to her—only complemented by how unlike her it should be. It’s perfect. It’s beautiful on her.
The Au Ra takes a deep breath, heart full of love and sinuses alight with notes of coffee and K’viri. She moves again to wake up her partner, to continue her morning, but her gaze stays fixed on the package below the Miqo’te’s hips. There’s a twinge in her gut—something she wants, but would never in a million years ask for: to take a nice, deep huff of the girl’s scent. To get her face in there , to breathe her in. Her eyes lock in on the nook just underneath K’viri’s sheath, a little ‘V’ shape formed from the sagging of her balls. It’d be so potent, so much of her.
But yeah, no, that’s not happening , Aiisa dismisses the thought—but catches herself.
K’viri is still asleep.
She probably won’t wake up.
She can’t gloat about it if she doesn’t know.
Aiisa walks silently to the foot of the bed. She kneels on the mattress, between the sleeping girl’s legs. Her mouth is practically watering. She leans in, careful not to disturb Viri’s sleep too much. She can practically taste the sweat and sex lingering on her girlfriend’s balls.
She gives in to the impulse.
Aiisa presses her nose into K’viri’s crotch, exactly in the spot she’d been thinking about. Her eyes water as she breathes in a deep, long breath, the acidic odor filling her nostrils, sinuses, and entirely blanking out her mind. It’s overwhelming and fucking perfect ; a concentrated dose of her. Aiisa shifts, huffing deep, again—basking in the Seeker’s warmth. The girl is disgusting, repulsive—but in a fascinating way that drives Aiisa to only ever want more.
Again, not that she’d ever admit it.
Her tongue rolls out from behind her lips without even a thought. She can already practically taste the girl anyway; why deny herself a real taste? She drags it all along K’viri’s nutsack, up to and around her sheath. Salt, sweat, cum, sex; Viri.
The Xaela's mind, never quite on her side, delivers a new intrusive thought. Aiisa typically makes a point of doing the exact opposite of anything her brain tells her—out of stubbornness primarily, and out of a misguided sense of self-penance otherwise. This thought, though, makes something in her gut wrench out of embarrassment, not for how bad it would be—but because she already did it.
Aiisa’s tongue presses inside the thick sheath between K’viri’s legs, tracing between the flesh of her at-present soft flare and the walls of the sheath itself. She takes her time, enjoys herself, and doesn’t even consider stopping when her gut tells her off. It really must have been hot in here, some part of her muses, with how sweaty K’viri tastes in the wrinkles and folds of her equine nethers.
If the Twelve were unmerciful, K’viri would wake here. Halone herself often seems keen on making a fool of Aiisa, though whether through good graces or pure luck itself, K’viri doesn’t stir.
The Xaela loses herself deeper and deeper into indulgence. Heady musk in her sinuses and days-old salt coating her palate, she doesn’t think twice before bringing her hands up to massage the Nunh’s balls. Oversized things—so annoyingly huge, each one just barely fits in one of her palms, but it’s a motion Aiisa has practiced time and time again with feigned disdain and begrudging obligation. Here, she satisfies her cravings with none of her typical fanfare, lapping at the sheathed stallion prick, dragging her tongue across the would-be flare, making sure to hit all the places K’viri typically likes. Her hands massage the girl’s nutsack like she’s begging them to release that gross over-thick cum.
Only as she feels a twitch in K’viri’s body does Aiisa freeze—panicked with the realization that she could still be seen if K’viri wakes up, rushing her mind to think up a convincing lie, considering if she could still run and hide before it’s too late—
Thoughts all interrupted as the sleeping Seeker’s soft cock throbs, ropes of cum coating her own toned stomach. Aiisa’s heart twists with a distorted pride, watching ribbons of cum trail down the girl’s sides and soak into the mattress; K’viri still doesn’t even open her eyes. Aiisa stands, recovering her facade and doing her best impression of a version of herself who hadn’t yet met the embodiment of hedonism that lives with her. She closes the door, even more gently still—taking another quick glance to the stray’s face. Still asleep. Still breathing those short, soft breaths sleeping people do. She takes a deep breath—of fresh air, this time—and another scent jogs her memory.
Oh fuck, the coffee’s probably cold by now.
K’viri strolls upstairs into the kitchen only a fraction of the hour later. Aiisa sits at the table under the angled skylights, sipping at a steaming mug of what smells like coffee.
“Hey, Ai,” she purrs in a groggy voice.
“Slept good?”
“Mmm, yeah,” K’viri giggles nervously.
“Y’re not usually late to breakfast.”
“Had to—y’know, get dressed.”
Aiisa scans the girl from head to toe. K’viri never changes before coming upstairs—she sleeps half-nude and is perfectly content drinking her sugar-coffee half-nude. Today, though, she threw on a loose traditional Miqo’te camise and some shorts. They look good on her.
She covers a smirk with another sip of nectar. She pushes another cup forward, resting on a saucer with a half-dozen little white cubes. It’s already diluted with milk, and even sweetened—but Aiisa knows better than to make guesses about her girlfriend’s blasphemous sugar preferences.
“Coffee’s right here, love.”