thinking about kisses and i think. arle likes slow, languid kisses where she can indulge in the feel and taste of you, hands roaming up and down the length of your body, mapping you out and pulling you close. very big on proximity and especially loves post-sex kisses when she’s lying on top of you—or you’re lying on top of her—and the kiss is almost lazily decadent. no thoughts, head empty, just the warmth in her chest and the feel of your lips against hers.
feixiao on the other hand loves frenzied kisses. she’s high energy all the time so kisses with her can end up really giggly and silly, laughing into each others’ mouth and swallowing the sound. adores it when you cradle her face and press kisses all over it, especially when she’s got you scooped up in her arms, head tilted up to you like leaves to the sun.
shalom likes neck kisses a lot. ofc, she still loves being kissed on the lips, but i think in her case neck kisses bring with it a certain kind of honesty. she’s so used to controlling her expressions, but her heart, unbroken anew, is a lot more sincere. so she likes it when you kiss her fluttering pulse—trembling because of you—and you can feel the emotions you inspire in her uninhibited under your lips.
catherine… ugh i hate her but she’s a knuckle-kiss gentlewoman. will take any opportunity to idly take your hand and bring it to her lips. it’s a soft, chaste brush of lips—the real intensity comes from the way she looks at you, blue eyes fathomlessly deep. it’s a little difficult to tell what she’s thinking like this, but maybe that’s intentional. she also enjoys inner-wrist kisses.
trigger likes it when you kiss her mask. she’d wear the lipstick stain with pride, and orphie finds it sooooo cute and romantic (magus… less so). she’s also a very touchy kisser, and it might seem overkill to some the way her fingers are splayed really all over your face as she’s kissing you, but she wants the clearest picture of you she can get. likes brushing her thumbs over your cheekbones as she kisses you. also gets super super flustered if you hold her by the waist as you kiss her.
viper is a big nape kisser enjoyer. she’s a very busy woman so long makeout sessions are few and far between—sneaking in quick kisses throughout the day is far more efficient. and also, she doesn’t distract you from your work (or vice versa) with just the briefest press of her lips to the back of your neck. it’s like a quietly affectionate reminder of i’m still here, and i love you. if she’s feeling particularly needy that day she might indulge in wrapping you up in her arms from behind and kissing down your neck, as far as she can go before she reaches the collar of your clothes.
kujou sara likes cheek kisses but gets so flustered by them, especially if you kiss her in public. she’s still very shy and endearingly awkward when it comes to any sort of affection, so even cheek kisses have her turning red to the tip of her ears, unable to meet your eyes. but still, after the fact, she feels a little surge of morale after your check-in cheek kisses. she’s so nervous about actually reciprocating, and the first time she does you worry she’d pass out from how red she got. although after that, she gets more comfortable with it, and it becomes quite normal to see the general with a relaxed smile on her face as she leaves her home. sara is also a HUGE sucker for when you tug her down by the collar to kiss her on the lips hehe
your words are flat, tone more statement than question, and a sheepish look graces lyney’s expression. the boy—young man, you correct yourself—shifts almost awkwardly on his feet, his eyes darting from side to side as he clearly tries to think up of some explanation for what in the world you’re seeing right now.
“well, father and i went out on a mission,” he begins. “it was supposed to be just reconaissance on a rogue fatui alchemist, but the target somehow figured out we were tailing him. i went after him, but i was careless. he… he managed to get the upper hand and threw some sort of potion at me. father took the hit instead, and i managed to restrain the alchemist. but when i looked back at father after that…”
he gestures awkwardly to his shoulder, whereupon a little black-and-white rabbit toy sits, and you raise a brow.
“she turned into a marketable plush toy?”
lyney scratches the back of his neck. “uh, well. yes, i’d say.”
you sigh, closing your eyes and pinching the bridge of your nose. today will be a long day indeed. after a beat, you open them again, and study the toy—which is, apparently, the fourth harbinger and more importantly your husband—again.
it’s a little rabbit, about the size of an average child’s toy. its body is mostly white, with patches of black at its hands, feet and the tips of its ears. its expression is one of utter unamusement, eyes half-lidded almost in annoyance. but in truth, it is those very eyes that assure you of the truth of lyney’s story—little crimson Xs that gaze at you with an intensity you would know anywhere.
“arlecchino?” you try hesitantly, the toy’s tiny ear flicks in response. you almost snort—archons above, it really is her. your husband really did get turned into a marketable plushie that you’re quite sure regrator wouldn’t hesitate to mass produce. instead, you shake your head, dropping your hand down to your side. “i take it you asked the alchemist for an antidote already?”
lyney nods. “i did. he said there wasn’t one—“ your eyes flicker briefly with panic, and lyney hastily elaborates, “—b-but he said it would wear off in a few hours! and he’s still alive, so if the worst comes to pass…”
you exhale slightly in relief. “right. well, i suppose i’ll take her off your… shoulder.”
you reach out unsurely to the little toy, palm open. its round head looks down at your open hand from lyney’s shoulder, before standing on its stubby legs and jumping. the plushie is remarkably soft, and you resist the urge to squeeze it. you bring your hand to your shoulder next, and the toy clambers onto it, settling comfortably with one tiny paw braced against your neck.
“comfortable?” you ask, glancing down. you get a sharp nod in response, and another flick of an ear. the absurdity of the situation gets a chuckle out of you, before you reach out and ruffle lyney’s hair. “alright, i’ll take it from here. go ahead and rest, lyney.”
the young man relaxes, nods, then heads off, looking the slightest bit glad he no longer has his father over his shoulder—literally. you, on the other hand, breathe out a slow exhale, moving your hand up to scratch beneath the toy’s chin instinctively, like you would a cat. it softens against your touch, slouching almost, a stubby leg kicking lightly against your collarbone.
you laugh softly. “i suppose i should spend the rest of the day in the office, before the younger children catch sight of such a cute little toy.”
the toy stiffens ever so slightly, ear flicking again, and you take that as an ethusiastic yes with another giggle before heading off to your shared office.
paperwork is, objectively, boring. however, little things can make it more interesting. like having another person to do it with, or in your case today—a sentient plush toy. toychino (as you’ve taken to calling her) ambles around your desk like a little helper, gathering papers and bringing you pens. sometimes she taps her little foot against a specific line, and you make a note to speak about it to her later, when she can actually—hopefully—talk again.
in truth, you’re barely keeping it together. toychino is giving you such vicious cuteness aggression it takes every ounce of self control in your being not to squeeze her senseless. time seems to drag on endlessly, and after what feels like an eternity of torment, the sun finally dips below the horizon, granting you and toychino a moment of reprieve. you bring her back with you to your shared room, setting her down against the pillows as you get changed.
you can feel her eyes on you, ever-present, even as a tiny toy. when you head back to the bed in your night-clothes, her gaze feels intense, despite her expression being almost comically perptually unimpressed. you flop onto the soft mattress, rolling onto your back and taking toychino in your hands, holding her up like a cat from under her small arms.
you can’t help but crack a smile. “you’re quite cute like this, you know. i might miss toychino.”
the toy does nothing but give you a silent, withering glare, ears dropping a fraction. like a pout, kind of. it makes you want to explode into a billion pieces, and you can’t smother the laugh that bubbles from your lips.
“i’m definitely getting a little copy of you made,” you murmur affectionately, rubbing her cheek with your thumb. “my beloved marketable plushie.”
you bring her down to your lips to press a kiss to her soft, cotton-filled head—
—and a plume of white smoke bursts in your face, before a solid weight drops onto your body, forcing a startled ‘oof’ from your lips.
you cough and wave a hand to clear away the smoke (thankfully tasteless, scentless and sensationless), blinking to clear out your eyes. when your vision finally refocuses, you’re looking into bright crimson Xs, shining like cut rubies.
as the final vestiges of smoke clear, there appears your husband—in all her full, human glory. her handsome face is set in an unamused expression as she looks down at you, though you know her well enough to be able to see the fondness lying behind it. she leans in, large, warm hands intertwining with your own and pressing yours into the mattress to pin you down.
“wife,” she rumbles, and you resist the urge to preen and expose how much you’ve missed her voice today. “you’ve had a lot of fun, haven’t you?”
you breathe a small laugh. “most certainly.”
she huffs softly, nosing along your jaw to your neck, and pressing a nipping kiss to your pulse. she’s warm, intensely so, and you feel that heat start to spread throughout your system as well.
“you had your hands all over me today,” she murmurs after a beat, shifting a little higher to whisper her next words into your ear. there’s almost a slight hint of mischief to her tone, but you’re starting to get a little too hot to be sure.
“it’s my turn now.”
(she ends up reminding you for the rest of the night why human arlecchino is a far better option than toychino. however, you still get a replica toy made, much to her utter dismay.)
ever so often, arlecchino finds you outside in the house's sprawling garden surrounded by the children. at any point, you could be showing them any manner of creature you've somehow managed to grab (gently, of course). just the past week it was a crimson finch that had accidentally flown into the window, and before that it was some lizard (green horned, she can almost hear you say indignantly) that had unfortunately not managed to scurry away from you in time. the children all watch with rapt interest as you cradle the little critter in your palms, softly relaying the assortment of miscellaneous facts you have stored somewhere in that brain of yours. it's an endearing sight, and one that arlecchino indulges in whenever she has the time, or feels the fatigue of staring at inane documents press against the backs of her eyes.
today, however, she watches sat beneath the shade of a willow tree, one leg crossed over the other and fingers curled around the handle of her teacup. it is a rare day of reprieve, and she spends it here in the mild fontainian mediterranean sun, her typical uniform shed in favor of a billowy white shirt and slim-fitting, high-waisted breeches. something has piqued yours and the children's interest, and all of you gather near the garden wall. she can hear the children whisper excitedly as you crouch down, and then they gasp as you stand up.
she raises a brow in interest herself. whatever it is your holding, it seems a little larger than your usual finds. however, with the crowd of children around you, it's difficult for her to actually see what it is you're holding. you spare her a glance over your shoulder, then a minute tilt of your head. a wordless invitation; come. and she does, easily, a thorny bloom to the sun, setting her teacup down with barely a sound and rising to her feet. her heels have been traded for something more casual, and her typical imposing stature has reduced somewhat--though the children still obediently part when she approaches.
"anything of note?" she asks. she studies your face carefully; from the curl of your lip to the creases at the corners of your eyes to the slope of your brow. of all things, she finds it is mischief that inhabits your expression, and she mentally prepares herself for whatever ridiculously endearing thing you're about to show her.
that 'ridiculously endearing thing', as it turns out, happens to be a rabbit--a rather plush, black-and white rabbit, sitting perfectly content in your arms. you're supporting the creature with one hand beneath its chest and the other beneath its hind legs, holding it close to you. some of the children gently pet the downy fur along its back, and the rabbit's black-tipped ears twitch in response, almost pleased.
"we found a little guest beneath the hedge line," you answer, glancing down affectionately at the creature. "the children were hoping they'd be allowed to keep it."
arlecchino snorts. "the children, or you?"
"rude," you shoot back, though the smile on your lips is still present. "come now, we've already thought of a name."
"is that so?" she drawls, her eyes narrowing a fraction at the rabbit. its own eyes, previously closed in contentment, open, and almost seem to challenge her. her fingers twitch behind her back.
"it is," you say, and there's a lightness to your tone that arlecchino knows is a harbinger of some form of mischief. her eyes meet yours, and they gleam with mirth. arlecchino wonders if the sun is ever envious of the way it is outshone. "would you like to hear it?"
she sighs, looking away. "proceed."
"thumper seems rather cute, no?" you answer innocently, batting your lashes, and internally arlecchino cringes. thumper. a name from a popular children's book, one that even a woman as cruel as the former knave would keep in stock in her library. a name, famously, that was attributed to the companion of the book's titular character, bambi.
bambi, which was also the name of the spider she once had as a child.
you notice her brief foray back into her memories, and draw her back with a soft laugh. thumper's ear twitches, and the little beast nuzzles closer against your chest. "no? well, we could always name him after you. you both seem to look quite alike, wouldn't you say? hm, how about per--"
"thumper is fine," arlecchino cuts you off, exasperation underlining her tone. there is an almost-scowl on her face, though the relaxed line of her shoulders gives away her true feelings. "the... creature, can stay. so long as it is properly cared for."
the children whoop and cheer, and your eyes soften into a thankful, tender look. thumper, now thoroughly loafing in your arms, wags his stubby little tail. perhaps he is somewhat cute, arlecchino muses, extending a hand to smooth down his fur--
--only for the traitorous little beast to lean away, cracking open an eye to glare almost witheringly at her. you coo as he presses close, and arlecchino's eye twitches. she doesn't know if rabbits have the capacity to make smug expressions, but she's willing to swear upon the tsaritsa's name that the damn creature is making that exact expression at her right now.
in hindsight, it's been a while since she's had rabbit stew.
arlecchino’s voice is a haughty sneer from behind you as she keeps you face down in the pillows with a firm hand on your neck, while the other holds your hips up and in place for her to ruthlessly ram her cock in and out of your sopping cunt. you can only manage choked whimpers and moans as each vicious drive of her hips fills you up to the brim, her thick cock forcing your tight walls to open around her.
she’s wrung so many orgasms from you at this point, your thighs slick and glossy with your own cum. there’s a wet spot on the bed from where it’s trickled down your legs and from when she made you squirt. you don’t even remember how long ago that was. your body feels like a raw nerve—each touch she gives you burns like fire but you just can’t get enough.
“arle, m-more, please—“ you beg, and she scoffs, drawing back until only the tip remains inside before slamming forward, filling you brutally. it forces a howl of pleasure from your throat, and she tightens her grip on your neck.
“tch, such a greedy slut, aren’t you?” she growls, leaning down to whisper the words in your ear. her teeth scrape the shell of your ear and you shiver at the sensation. “always so desperate for a cock to fill you up, hm? was that why you felt the need to throw yourself at those men?”
you whine, doing your best to shake your head, though it’s difficult with the way she’s forcing you down against the sheets. she loosens her grip a little and stills her hips, giving you some respite for a moment.
“no?” she asks, with faux curiousity, and you don’t have to look at her to know that her lip is curled up into a look of disapproval. “are you sure?”
“don’t want theirs,” you manage to gasp out meekly, turning your head to look into her eyes. they’re dark, dangerous, but you find yourself drawn into them all the same. “jus’ want yours.”
arlecchino stills, but then the hand on your nape tightens and she’s shoving you even deeper into the sheets, and rutting into you like never before. her cock bullies your g-spot with each thrust of her hips. she grunts as your cunt tightens even more around her length, and the hand on your hip travels lower to your belly, feeling the way her dick makes your stomach swell ever so slightly before going down to your clit to rub harsh circles on the stiff nub.
“fuck, baby— wanted this cock so bad, hm?” she growls into your ear, “my pretty little whore.”
“y-yours!” you cry, fat tears starting to well in your eyes as your brain turns to mush in your skull with each drive of arlecchino’s hips. her front slaps against your ass, the sound of skin against skin ringing out around the room. anyone unfortunate enough to be walking by would surely know what was happening.
arlecchino grins at the sight of your glossy eyes, and in a brief moment of affection presses a soft kiss to your cheek. “shh, baby, just take it, yeah? such a good whore for me.”
you sink your teeth into the sheets below you, feeling the coil in your core wind tighter and tighter. arlecchino grunts above you, her relentless rhythm faltering, and you know she’s close. broken pleas for more and of her name slip from your lips, and it makes her shudder, jaw clenching.
“you’re mine, sweet thing,” she snarls, ghosting her teeth along the slope of your shoulder. “mine, only mine. ‘m gonna mark you from the inside with my cum, breed you full of my baby, hm?”
the thought flashes across your mind like a lightning bolt—a vision of yourself round and swollen with her child—and the coil in your core snaps. you cum with a scream, cunt clenching so tightly you nearly force arlecchino out as you squirt for a second time. arlecchino hisses, hips stuttering before she plants herself as deep as she can go and spills into you. you feel her release fill up ever corner of your cunt and even press against your womb.
you must have blacked out because when you come to again, you’re lying on your side with arlecchino next to you, panting, still buried balls-deep inside you. she presses soft kisses against the back of your neck, while her hand strokes your belly, over the bulge she forms in your stomach.
“my sweet girl,” she mumbles. “my love, my wife…” she whispers sweet words into your ear, gentle praises a far cry from how she’d fucked you just before. “you did well. rest, now. i’ll take care of you.”
your voice is a rough, thready wheeze, undoubtedly from all the moaning and screaming you had been doing earlier. from her position above you, kneeling between your legs, arlecchino quirks a brow, the corner of her lips lifting ever so slightly.
“ah. so that’s what all this was about,” she muses with the slightest shake of her head. just a few hours earlier, she had arrived home from yet another diplomatic trip, a little weary but nevertheless not too worse for wear. you’d greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, before taking her hand and leading her to the bedroom—estelle was, perhaps fortunately, already asleep—where just the sight of you managed on the bed was enough to banish all of her exhaustion far to the back of her mind. your voice was a soft, inviting purr; the call of a siren, and she’d been powerless to resist.
i missed you, you whispered, fingers tracing the muscle of her bicep beneath her coat, it’s not the same on my own. and just those few words had given rise to a lust so absurdly all-consuming she absolutely had to have you immediately or she would have likely gone quite insane. in the end she isn’t that surprised you had something like this planned—it is quite like you after all, and she certainly isn’t complaining.
“are you my gift, then?” she hums, dark hands brushing sweat-damp strands of hair from your face. you preen beneath her touch, a slow sigh of contentment leaving your lips.
“mhm,” you nod eventually, eyes sliding open to look at her again. her heart lurches ever so slightly beneath her breastbone at the sight of you, so thoroughly pleased and looking at her with warmth the sun would envy. “you get one more request, as a treat. we’ll do anything you suggest.”
“how generous,” she drawls, but her voice is light. her hands slip down to your hips, squeezing the meat there ever so gently. “anything at all?”
“anything at all,” you confirm. there’s a familiar hunger in your gaze, but for some reason, her mind drifts elsewhere. fatherhood has been… kind to her. not easy, to be sure, but there is a part of her that feels— soothed, in a way, when she holds estelle in her arms. as if the little girl was proof, in a sense, that she is capable of giving something to this world that is not violence or death or grief. that her hands that can burn— can also warm.
her thumbs brush over your lower belly, and she shifts and bends low to kiss the area right between your hips. she hears your breath hitch ever so minutely, and she speaks her request against your skin softly.
“i want another.”
you go still. “another?” you ask, but your voice is more curious than accusatory. she looks up, and leans forward again to rest her forehead against yours. everything in her suddenly aches for proximity, and her semi-hard length slides against your wetness, drawing a soft gasp from you. “another what?”
“another child,” she clarifies, and you blink at her a little owlishly. then, you chuckle, hands rising to cup her face.
“that’s quite a big request,” you reply, gently caressing the arch of her cheekbones. “are you certain?”
she almost snorts. she’d always be certain when it comes to you. “entirely,” she answers, clasping one of her hands over your own, and turning her head to press a kiss to your palm. “without question.”
“who’d have thought the fourth harbinger herself would have baby fever,” you giggle, your eyes like little stars in the bedroom’s low light, “not that i’m complaining. it’d be nice for estelle to have siblings closer in age.”
arlecchino hums in agreement, and takes the opportunity to trail her lips down your jaw and to your neck. “so we are in agreement?”
“entirely,” you repeat back to her, arms winding around her broad back. “without question.”
arlecchino exhales a little roughly, suddenly feeling far too big for her own skin. she needs to be inside you again, needs to feel you around her, grounding her. she noses a little harder against the crook of your neck, and one hand grasps the base of her cock to align it with your entrance, already wet and slick with a mixture of your cum. you mewl softly when she slides in, and she groans at the way you yield to her so beautifully. her movements are slow, measured, gentle— she makes love to you now that she’s had her fill of fucking you, and she makes it known.
“i adore you so,” she breathes against your neck, holding you close as if you might disappear if not, “my wife, i love you.”
you answer her just as sweetly, and she fills you for the nth but not the last time that night. she knows, realistically, that you’re still on birth control and that nothing will come of tonight, but still. she coaxes your legs apart over and over, slides home within you and rolls her hips until you weep and clutch at her and lock your legs around her hips and hold her deep inside you like you’re hungry for it all the same.
(later, in the not-so-distant future, she makes good on her declarations. and not very long after that, she holds a squalling little boy in her arms with a shock of dark hair on his little head the same shade as yours. he’s covered in viscera, and loud, and wriggling like a belligerent worm in her arms, but—
the only thought she can muster is that he is perfect.)
your words are grumbled into your pillow, but with the way you feel the spiderweb of threads on your back quiver, you know your dear goldweaver has heard you. beyond the cocoon of your bed you can distinctly hear a little creature sneaking about—of chests being opened and couch cushions being rifled through.
“she needs enrichment,” comes the melodic, dry reply from your lover, the picture of golden elegance even in sleep, her all-seeing eyes shut, delicate lashes brushing the apple of her cheeks. “she will tire out eventually.”
“mm, after she has plundered all your wealth, perhaps,” you retort, shifting under silken sheets to gather her into your arms, slotting your face in the crook of where her neck meets her shoulder. she smells of rosewater and fresh laundry, the scent as delicate as every other little thing about her.
a sleep-touched laugh slips from her lips at that, as her hands find the smooth plane of your back. a kiss is pressed to your temple, soft as the brush of a butterfly’s wings. “if that is the case, then i shall simply weave us all more wealth.”
“you’re already overworked,” you counter with a soft sigh. “a little discipline is good for kittens, you know.”
aglaea’s hands find your face, and she draws back to meet your eyes. gold and irisdescent green, like the emerald leaves upon the boughs in the grove you once came from, peer into you as if examining your very soul. something in your chest—perhaps heart, perhaps coreflame—trembles at the touch, like a thread pull taut.
“so is a little love,” she says softly, and you know this battle is lost. for all of an orator you are at the grove, in this debate under rose-scented sheets, in a home draped in gold thread, your words fail. this is the great irrationality, that which exceeds the calculus of the universe; this, is love, and you are but a powerless butterfly carried upon a warm west wind.
“oh, alright,” you sigh eventually, smiling wryly. “but do not blame me if she ends up ripping your curtains trying to get to the—“
just then, you both hear the characteristic sound of fabric being shredded, and it is aglaea’s turn to sigh now. you simply chuckle, and release your beloved goldweaver from your grasp as she rises from the bed like the brilliant, aureate sun, and you wish in your heart that the dusk might never come.
irrational, the coreflame in your chest whispers, carried by the lightness of mirth.
in love, your own mortal heart corrects.
this time, there is no divine rebuttal. only the sounds of a waking home, unfurling from the chrysalis of sleep to greet the rosy-fingered dawn.
cipher contemplates jumping when she hears you walking over.
the fall isn’t terrible—she’d survive it with or without the coin of whimsy. dolosians always land on their feet, as the saying goes. plus, she’s not about to let you of all people see something as embarrassing as her corpse on some poor citizen’s roof, golden blood smeared over red terracotta like some half-baked work of art even she wouldn’t bother stealing. master thieves have standards, after all.
you’re blissfully oblivious to her inner turmoil, though—as you usually are. you approach the balcony with offerings of fresh fishcakes in hand, like she’s some sort of mercurial god or a flighty cat. still, the promise of fish appeals to her dolosian sensibilities, and cipher acknowledges your presence with a swish of her tail and a drawn-out sigh.
“don’t you have better things to do than to be out here looking for strays? that puppy of yours might start missing you.”
“phainon will be fine without me.” your answer is simple enough to almost be annoying as you delicately set the plate down on the balcony’s balustrade. “and i’m more of a cat person, really.”
cipher snorts. “since when?”
“since i met you,” is your reply, infuriatingly honest as ever, and she can already feel the hairs on her tail standing up. she swipes a fishcake from your plate of offerings and bites into it like a half-formed god greedy for more. she takes and you watch as she takes, and cipher feels something ugly nestle under her breastbone. it is always like this. all she knows to do is take, and all you know to do is give.
but that snow-haired pup would deliver you the world if he could. the fishcake tastes like ash in her mouth.
“stay,” you say softly, “just for tonight.”
okay. of course. please, she thinks.
“i can’t,” she lies. “and you’re better off with that pup. knights in shining armor are better than thieves in tattered cloaks, right?”
you persist. “i want you, cifera. i have always wanted you.”
the best lies are the ones that contain truths. so her lie to you goes like this:
“i don’t need you.”
with enough believers, zagreus giggles in her mind, lies become reality.
she doesn’t need you. cifera doesn’t need anyone but herself. it was she who survived when dolos burned, she who survived when the golden purge swept through amphoreus.
but it was never about needs, was it?
the truth is this: if she had to choose a heart to steal, it would be yours—but you deserve better than to have it taken from you like that. and all cipher knows how to do is take.
she slips off the balustrade before she can see any more of your honesty in your heartbreak. trickery laughs in her ears all the way down.
hmmm…. regency au with catherine augustus andohar 🤔 you’re at yet another party your family has dragged you to and as per usual there are suitors hot on your tail, always a step behind and a hand outstretched in hopes of a dance. you have no time to waste on fools or flights of fancy, and you’re quite certain none of them are good enough dancers anyway (at tea, your friends moan and groan about clumsy footwork, and touches too firm to be remotely enjoyable. you decide then and there you would never let yourself suffer such unpleasantness—even if it means you’ll end up the lonely spinster in their gossip). nevertheless, some are persistent, hounding you like terriers at your heels at every corner of the estate you try to hide yourself away in.
it gets to a point where you end up scurrying to the stables of all places for just a moment of reprieve. unfortunately, the horses aren’t your only company—no, because lounging on a crate and luxuriously sipping on a flute of champagne undoubtedly stolen from the party is a familiar face dressed in verdant velvet, with hair the colour of wheat fields, and eyes like frozen lakes.
catherine augustus andohar—general of the royal army, and the most notoriously arrogant yet desired bachelor of the ton.
she fixes you with a smile as sharp as the blade you heard she wields, and cold as the metal it was hewn from. “are the members of the ton so marriage-crazy they would chase me down even here?”
“don’t flatter yourself,” you snap back before your brain even registers. the arrogance of her assumption—it’s well within her described character, but it doesn’t rankle your nerves any less. “i wouldn’t care if you died, much less go out looking for you.”
your words are entirely unbecoming of a noble. entirely. if your mother knew, she’d wash your mouth with soap then spend the next week mourning the future of your family. but something changes in the general’s eyes at your biting retort, like a crack in the ice—and she laughs. rich and melodic, and oddly sincere.
“what a smart mouth,” she muses, rising from her seat. she looms over you, a brick wall in military colours, but you refuse to give her any ground. her smile widens. “are you a sailor, then?”
“a daughter.”
augustus’s eyes shut briefly, as if in recollection. “similar enough. and what terrible tide has swept you from the party?”
you shrug. “same reason as you.”
“hm. not an enthusiastic participant in the marriage market, i take it.”
you merely nod, the very thought of marriage exhausting you for words. augustus is silent, and in the glance you steal at her you can see the general standing before you, the wheels of war turning in her mind as she undoubtedly begins to see the threads of a strategy winding together.
“in that case…” she says, eyes sliding open like the sky peeking through grey clouds, brilliantly blue, “i propose an alliance.”
when you return to the party it is on augustus’s arm, and she claims the final and only dance of your night. the hand on your waist is gentle, featherlight, and the hand that guides does not demand, but encourage. she does not step on your toes even once. within the cradle of the music, general augustus is gentle with you, in a way that seems entirely different to the ruthless person written about in the paper.
(you learn, a marriage and several dances down the line later, that it’s because when you dance, you dance with catherine—just catherine.)
for now though, general augustus dips you low as the dance draws to a close, a d she leans near enough that you can see the silvery fractals in her blue eyes like remnants of a shattered blade. as scattered applause echoes through the ballroom, all you hear are the words she spoke to you in those stables.
all’s fair in love and war.
and for both of you, love might as well be war—and you can only hope your ally and faux-lover can deliver to you the glorious victory she promised.
