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Zani’s knee is inched right between Phoebe’s thighs when she corners her to the wall, gloved hand glued to the ribbon that holds her skirt taut, tentatively studying every quirk of her brow, noting down every little move that exerts the subtlest of changes to her expressions.
“The Ministry of Holy Rituals sure is something,” Zani drawls, lazily grinning at the way she has her undone before they truly start.
“I wonder, what sacred purpose does this unsuspecting part of your back have that it’s so important to leave it uncovered like this?”
Phoebe whines in a rare fit of discomposure at her pointed question, her voice cracking down by the minute when she realizes that they’re not going anywhere—not until Zani’s satisfied with wearing her sanity paper thin, push her as far as she can go before she’ll carefully tend to all her woes as if she hadn’t stepped in to the main role for its causation in the first place.
It’s not a bad sight at all, this lovely view Zani has that’s been kept only for her eyes; if the once questionable design choice for an Acolyte that had made its way to her beloved’s attire never had its use in Phoebe’s life before, Zani will make sure it does, now.
Her fingers are a threat to Phoebe’s shaky countenance when they graze against her exposed vertebrae—the intimacy of Zani’s tease has Phoebe hissing, the barest hint of tears emerging to accompany the quivering of her amethyst eyes.
“Z–Zani…”
Her thumb smooths over the seamed linings of the ribbon that ties her skirt together, and she pinches the lace using the help of her pointer finger with little to almost no strength at all. Zani can almost understand why kids like to play with their food—there’s a part of her that lights up seeing Phoebe so vulnerable under her wiles, too.
“Patience, tesoro.” Zani replies to her call, tugging the loop until it’s halfway undone, torturing her while propping it up as some gratuitous show of mercy—Phoebe will have to wait before Zani gives in to her desires, she’ll have to pull herself together while her lover enjoys watching her squirm beneath her touch, “Self-restraint is one of the heavenly virtues you have to uphold, is it not, Acolyte Phoebe?”
There’s an eagerness to Zani’s actions that dictates her to savor this moment where they have each other all to themselves—it has her ignoring the thrum between both their legs, has her quelling the urge to peel the stockings off her skin fast enough that Phoebe wouldn’t even need shakily plead for her when she’d be so much more better off saving her voice for the minutes to come.
But then: “Please.” Phoebe pleads, grabbing her by the wrist, pulling her hands to travel into the crevice between her skirt and the curvature of her waist, “Zani, please.”
It’s unfair that she knows how to twist the situation in her favor, Phoebe bats her eyelashes at her with such a melted innocence that it’s almost outrageous—Zani can’t not relent to her desires, she can hear her normally steadfast heart trying to leap out of her chest.
Beat.
“You really can be a beacon of temptation when you want to be,” is the accusation that lapses out of her mouth—but it’s not quite an accusation as it is just another confession that she’s always bent to Phoebe’s will when it comes to these things, not when the fondness that ripples into the depths of her eyes claims the latter to be the truer statement of the two, “you know that, dearest Miss Acolyte?”
The noise that slips past Phoebe’s mouth at her guileless admission is barely a laugh when it’s splintered with the roughness of desire all over. It’s nary an acknowledgement, it can barely even be called a response.
Nonetheless.
The fluency Zani holds in deciphering Phoebe’s mannerisms has her understanding without a need to prompt for her to say anything audibly. She can hear Phoebe’s coyness through the flutter of her drooping eyelashes, through how she spills herself through her tights, But you like me in spite of that, they say as she tilts her head, just to make sure Zani can see them more clearly, you do, don’t you?
“Mmh,” Zani chuckles bitterly at her own weak surrender. Even then; the endearment is something she can’t possibly stop from lacing her words sugary sweet, “You’re too cute to say no to. You always have to win against me, huh?”
Phoebe doesn’t reply to that, leaning against her taller figure instead. Zani can feel her smiling against shoulder, and that’s an answer in itself.
Well, it doesnt matter, really—even if she thinks otherwise, Zani will give her heart to her either way.
“Your wish,” she murmurs as a continuance, the ribbon untwining in her fingers, losing its form under the weight of her knowing hands, “is my command, cara mia.”
She thinks she can’t ever not let her beloved have the winning hand in anything, that much is proven true at the end. The pounding in her ribcage that Phoebe gives her in return is much too fulfilling of a reward for her to want otherwise.