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“It’s alright.” goes Zani even when it’s clear that she isn’t, arm resting against the canvas of her stomach as she’s hunched over in pain against the door of her apartment, “I’m fine. I have my suppressants. I’m still in the period of my life where they can suppress my heat from affecting me too much without a lot of drawbacks—”
Her body betrays her actions like second nature, legs buckling down in protest at the thought of forcing her entire being to walk another step out the door. The floor welcomes her knees with a thump and it stings as her tail straightens up as a reflex to the pain—just another sign of her heat trying to manipulate her body into staying home, what’s supposed to be a momentary slight of shock renders her unable to get back on her feet.
Forced to prop her back against the oakwood shine of the door, she whimpers in uncontrollable discomfort as her soapy orange pheromones brush against the floral peony in the air, finding herself melting into the hand that tenderly brushes against her forehead.
“You’re heating up badly.” Phoebe comments in worry, hand sliding down to her neck to press lightly against her scent glands to stimulate them for the chance of any slight of comfort, “You’re in no condition to work, Miss Zani.”
She doesn’t stop whimpering, every note of a pathetic excuse for a response escaping in jagged patterns. Choked and restrained in one second and free-falling the next; it’s a built-in biological instinct, a natural response to the only other person within the room doubling as the only other person she’d trust with her life holding the ability to stir her up so messily inside.
The skin surrounding her mate bite heats up like a furnace on the juncture of her neck, burning even more so when Phoebe grazes against it with her gloved fingers in an attempt to calm her down.
Sometimes, Zani still finds it hard to believe that the lithe woman in front of her had so brazenly laid a claim on her entirety when she gave her the chance.
“I’ve done this before.” Zani tries to argue in the midst of her noises, despite the fact that her legs are squirming from their closeness and the lack of actual physical intimacy that normally comes with it, “You’ve never had to see me in a gruesome state during my heat for a reason. I can still do it now if you let me.”
“That’s then.” counters Phoebe, waving that off when the two situations have completely different variables in play. She wasn’t here then, but she is now so it’s a useless defense. No human grounded by thirst would reject a glass of water when it’s dangled in front of their eyes, “Now’s now—you don’t have to keep taking them when I’m here.”
Zani huffs, her expression contorting into something she’d see on a kid who’s being denied a trip to a candy store; “There’s an important meeting today.” she trails on, looking away to find any sort of reason she could use that Phoebe couldn’t possibly reject.
The neural links of her brain that’s barely hanging on directs her to the shadow of an heiress synonymous to the glory of the Montelli family and forgive me for using you as an excuse, Lady Carlotta, she thinks to herself as her mouth starts to open again; “I promised her Ladyship to be there on time, I need to—”
Phoebe shakes her head before she’s even able to finish the sentence, “Lady Carlotta won’t mind.”
Zani narrows her eyes at her, bruised at her interruption. “You don’t know that.”
Her beloved shrugs before continuing on; “I have it on good instincts that Lady Carlotta will mind if her best employee is constantly thinking of others before she does herself.” she tuts, “And if she does have a problem with a woman and her uncontrollable biological system that deems her out-of-service for a week, then she can lodge that complaint with the Order which I’ll be sure to see to myself—when your heat is over, that is.”
“You sound intimidating like that.” Zani tries to joke, thinking that maybe this will show that she still has a good enough head that’s ready to be used to do her work; “Miss Acolyte, I’d thought that you were the type to prevent conflicts instead of stirring them up?”
“It comes with the privilege of being your lover, Miss Zani.” responds Phoebe all too calmly, unaware of the effect the title has on the heat that’s begun to course even more violently through her head. “My mate is so enchanting that I sometimes have the urge to use my staff for purposes other than cleansing, dear me—I’ll have to pray that the Sentinel will forgive me for such obscenities when it’s in the sacred name of love and tending to one’s other half.”
Zani looks away and a redness that doesn’t originate from her heat diffuses into her face, burning wildfire into her skin; “I’m sure They will if it’s you who’s asking.”
There’s some more fight inside her, some part of her brain that’s run on overdrive without stop over the years screaming at her to argue again and again and again until Phoebe’s had enough of her excuses and let her leave to do her job—she’s a master negotiator, someone who’s won best employee for years on end despite only having entered the Montelli workforce at an age that should never have qualified her in the first place. Something meager like this was something she should easily be able to win against when she has a sound mind, it shouldn’t even be a debate in the first place.
Except she doesn’t have a sound mind—not right now, not with her insides boiling with a flame and with every single thought that could only be attributed to her secondary gender begging her to leave it all be. Responsibilities, workloads, deadlines—why should any of it matter now?
You could give yourself to her now, that part of her responsible for the unwinding of her body shrieks out deep inside as the hand that’s pressing on her scent glands trail up once again, she’s yours just as much as you are hers, she said it just as much, get that into your head: she's yours, and you're hers.
An unfamiliar feeling that’s come to be familiar over the months she’s spent with Phoebe washes over her as she allows the hand to tilt her head up, holding her cheek as she’s prompted to look into the amethyst eyes staring at her with unease.
Phoebe has this thing with her words that maybe not even she herself knows about, Zani feels. She says things with meaning with an ease that could turn a whole room of heads in her direction; it’s what’s happening here.
Lover. Mate. Other half. It had come out so easily, so fluidly out of Phoebe’s mouth like it’s a prayer that she’s practiced her whole life and not a title holding a significant weight to its name they’ve only held onto for a few months.
“Zani.”
Phoebe’s voice breaks through her reverie, her sugary tone now laced all over with an anxious glaze. The lack of formalities is jarring to hear—she’s always found it difficult to leave out the Miss even when they’ve seen more than enough of each other that the title should have been long gone. It causes her attention to snap back at the woman in front of her, fixed at the concern on Phoebe’s face.
“It’s okay if you don’t trust me enough yet to see you in heat.” she promises her this without even the slightest hint of discontent, without even a single sign that she was hurt at the thought of yet being seen as someone so trustworthy in Zani’s eyes; “I’ll take care of your leave, I’ll stay here without touching you if you want me to. I’ll clean up your apartment and make you food so you won’t starve. Just promise me you won’t go to work until this is over.”
Zani shakes her head, vision blurring out. Her eyes are dotted with the presence of tears and she thinks that could be attributed up at the lack of comfort—but maybe that’s also because she’s overwhelmed with the thought of being cherished so dearly; she can’t tell.
“No.” she refutes, because how could Phoebe ever dare to think that she doesn’t trust her with her life when the claim that Zani had asked her to give her herself is still perfectly stamped on her neck? “No, it’s not that.”
Phoebe doesn’t say anything and it’s her own way of telling her to continue on, to explain what’s left within the inner threads that’s barely holding together her continuously melting head.
“I’m not…” Zani waves her hand around without too much aim, lackadaisically pointing to herself as she tries to find some words to work with; “...me, you know, when I’m in heat. I can’t…” she pauses because it’s not that she can’t, that would be a misrepresentation for a statement. So; “...I’m not used to being…”
Zani stops, mouth left ajar even with no sign of any words lapsing through the gap.
There’s too many things circling her head to tell Phoebe what she means, to make sure she knows what she’s roping herself into; I’m not used to being watched over like a pathetic animal who can’t fend for themselves, taken care of in this state of complete vulnerability, let someone so close when I’m used to coping with it all alone, having to rely completely on someone else on something that isn’t under my control that isn’t me, seen as someone incapable of even the most normal human task of having a hold over my actions when normally you’re so used to having an image of me as someone who’s reliable and dependable and capable of anything without letting anything stop me and—
Nothing from that outlook comes out of her mouth; much to her own dismay.
Nonetheless, she feels like the point’s been made with her state of undoing.
“I won’t be able to take care of you.” Zani settles at the end because she thinks it still helps paint the picture just as much, shutting her eyes both to steady herself to however Phoebe will respond and to grasp with her heat. “You’ll have to take care of me.”
(She words it in such a way to make sure the point gets across with a subtlety to it—that despite their secondary genders dictating how they’re supposed to work as lovers, how their relationship is to be due to the inner workings of their biology and their DNA, the dynamic they've played along to switches their statuses to a complete reversal all this time.
Zani has always been the reliable one. She's the one hugging and spooning her at night, she’s the one responsible for both their climaxes when they find themselves intertwining under linen sheets and reaching for that same feeling of ecstasy every single time. She’s the one to tease, the one to assert, the one to guard—and that’s what Phoebe signed up for, isn’t it?
There’s some part of her that’s terrified that Phoebe won’t like seeing her like this—as someone who needs to be looked after, someone that’ll beg her for relief because of the pre-programmed state of her system. Her body will stop accepting those suppressants in the distant future, she’ll have to let her heat consume her at some point and be relentless for a knot to sate the hunger pooling in between her legs but that was for the Zani of some years later to deal with, not the Zani of now.
She knows it’s not like she can continue with this forever, this act that doesn’t benefit any part of her except that distant side that’s terrified of showing weakness when so many people depend on her to keep their livelihoods going, Nightwalker or not—but it’s how she’s lived her whole life. How could she turn away from those mannerisms when it built the foundations of her life in the first place?)
Her thoughts are snapped in half when she feels the softness of Phoebe’s lips grazing against the corner of her eyes. Slowly, carefully, she peppers kisses all over her face after licking away at the tears pooling by her eyelids—it’s the softest of gestures, something so sacredly intimate even for the two of them and Zani can’t stop herself from drifting towards her, arching to the touch that’s she’s come to be so familiar with over the short course of her life that Phoebe’s come to be a part of.
“Zani.” Phoebe calls for her, voice gently firm and unaccompanied by the lightness it’s normally tinged with whenever Zani’s around as she pulls away, leaving some distance, “Look at me.”
Her request isn’t met with much resistance, this time—Zani’s eyes flutter open to meet hers and she whines, unable to turn away from how Phoebe looks at her so fondly that she’d have thought she was looking at the statue of Imperator that stood proudly in the middle of the Cathedral down at the Order’s grounds.
(And it’s funny, she feels, to be so giddy over the fact that she could match with her God like this, of the only other being that perhaps Zani could refer to as a rival for Phoebe’s love—but it does, even if she won’t admit it because that might just be something Phoebe will use against her in their teasing contests.
It doesn’t erase the fact that it does, still.)
Phoebe continues on, “I’m not asking you to take care of me.” she placates her, peony scent wafting them both in an attempt to soothe her worries, “It doesn’t matter right now, either way, I’m not the one who needs it, I’m not the one in rut and I might not be the best at being an Alpha but what matters is—do you want me to take care of you?”
There she goes again, using that mouth of hers to say something that’s normal to her but isn’t normal at all to Zani. Phoebe’s outwardness makes her whine, her face abnormally heating up once again as she responds; “If you’ll have me.”
“I will if you let me have you.” is the affirmation that comes out of Phoebe’s mouth, an emphasis being exerted when she says you because it's still her choice at the end, whether or not she wants to be vulnerable in front of her, and Zani’s reply isn’t exactly the answer she wants, so she restates her point; “Yes or no, Zani; do you want me to take care of you?”
Her tail’s wagging wildly at the thought of having Phoebe imprinting her existence into her. A part of her is screaming at the chance; yes, yes, “Yes.” Zani gasps out, “Yes, Phoebe, I want you to take care of me.”
“Then I will.” Phoebe concludes, reaching out to that appendage of hers and rubbing it down to make sure it stays still—she wouldn’t want her to hurt herself accidentally by letting it bang too harshly against a hard surface, after all: “I will take care of you.”
Her floral scent envelops them in an instant when she leans in, lips meeting halfway as Zani wraps her tail around her waist, chipping away at the distance she’d put between them before. They kiss without too much rhythm, Zani can feel the outline of Phoebe’s knot building up and grazing against her belly and she flicks at the shadow just to listen to her moan that she captures into her mouth.
And maybe it’s also silly, she thinks about it again as the reassurance finally hits away at the anxiety that clouded her judgement, hands digging at each other's clothes and traverse through the landscape of their bodies reddened by all the blood rushing through their veins—Phoebe has always seen her through her biology, she hadn’t batted an eye when she saw her buying those suppressants when they’d only known each other as an Acolyte from the Order and the aptly named Montelli Dog. She knew what she was getting herself into—she knew and she didn’t care, she still took the chance to mark her when she asked her to sometime after their first tryst.
The thought that she wanted to take care of her like this sends another pang of delight down her spine and Zani squirms as Phoebe unbuckles her trousers, revealing the slick that’s started trailing down her thighs.
“Phoebe,” she rasps her name in between muffled whines, the obscene sounds of their closeness only goading her heat even further to make sure this won’t ever end until they become one, thoughts hazing into nothing but white noise, “please, please, I need you—please.”
Phoebe kisses her again at her urging, trying her best to calm her down as she fumbles with her skirt to pull out her length. Their mingling scents are the only thing they can smell in the air, she’ll have to take care of her here now before they can move back to their nest. Her legs aren’t strong enough to hold up even if Phoebe were to let her lean onto her shoulders but that didn’t matter—falling from grace has never been a concern to them, they’ve done this in all sorts of places when Phoebe had her rut, this isn’t even the worst setting for them to make love on.
Phoebe would love her either way even if she did—with her wings clipped away or with them wholly intact, they’ll have each other in their entirety all the same.