[ As a child, she split her time between the city and her father's home in rural upstate New York (seen and heard from only when necessary). But holidays were always spent in the city; years later, as an adult, she finds that the city she remembers from the Christmases of her childhood is still much the same: it was a mad dash to the holidays, and on the day before and on the day of the city slowed to the point of being still. This was the case everywhere, except for the pubs and bars, which would be filled to their brim until New Year's Day.
These places were normally an escape for people who had no desire to confront their real lives, but such needs were tenfold around the holidays it seemed. When she was younger she thought it a bit sad, but these days she doesn't think much of it at all.
It is Christmas Eve, the music is louder than usual and the people occupying the club force themselves to be more lively in turn. Artoria weaves them through crowds of drunk, jolly, and downtrodden clubgoers, cutting off attempts at conversation with polite smiles and curt nods. The regulars knew her well despite her attempts to leave this aspect of her family's "business" in the hands of her associates– they made fun of her often for humoring every hello, conversation and request. She likely would have on this night as well, if she was not already entertaining company.
A gloved hand just barely presses against the small of Akeha's back as she guides them through the bar, passed the VIP section, and deep into the section of the club restricted only for fellow associates. She fumbles some with the key to the office, perhaps far too aware of the warm presence hovering over her shoulder.
The door opens finally, revealing dark wood, hues of blue and silver, and a family crest and coat of arms on the wall behind the imposing desk at the end of the room. There is mistletoe hanging above the door frame, and a small pile of mismatched presents on her desk– gifts from patrons, associates, and residents of the portion of the city her family controlled.
She holds the door and lets Akeha step in first before she closes it– ever the gentleman. ]
Are you sure this is how you'd like to spend your Christmas eve?
[ She speaks, finally. She has been mulling on the question for quite some time– when something was on her mind she could not speak of anything else, even if she was confronted with another situation that required a casual hello or something far more urgent; and if she was not prepared to speak what was on her mind she opted to say nothing at all.
Artoria lights the fireplace along the wall, gas and wood coming together to birth a crackling flame in little time. The warmth seeps across the carpet and into the rest of the room, and she slips off the jacket of her suit. ]
[The air had been so cold outside it had briefly taken the air out of her lungs, and though she expects the warmth of the club and the people inside to soothe her, the only comfort she receives is Artoria's hand on her back.
She is known here too — she is known most places in this city, though the welcomes she receives are far more subdued, and the looks she gets are surreptitious and cautious. This is typical, for her family was known for far worse than her companion's, and with the day of her ascension to the head of her family fast approaching, there was no doubt that whispers had begun to circulate. Her father had told her once that infamy was better than being forgotten, and so she keeps her head held high, her gaze focused. Occasionally, she even affords the overly-polite hellos she receives the barest of smiles, or a light touch of her gloved hand on a shoulder or wrist.
She is not here for them, and only cares about Artoria's opinion besides, but it was good to gain favor where you could. She is nonetheless grateful to be led inside to the study, and relaxes some as the door closes behind the two of them, hiding them from prying eyes.
She slips out of her coat without waiting for Artoria to offer to take it, and hangs it on the coat holder with the air of familiarity. Then she sits without answering, crossing one leg over the other, and reaches in her handbag for a lighter and her cigarettes.]
May I smoke here?
[She's already lighting the cigarette as she asks, takes a drag, and blows out smoke in hazy winding patterns. Her gaze focuses first on Artoria, then at the fire.]
If I did not want to spend my time here, I wouldn't have come.
[Her answer is delivered softly, and without offense. She is rarely hesitant or unsure of her place, and so her tone has an amused lilt when she asks her own question in return.]
[ She does not smoke, not really– cigars occasionally, only in the name of politics– but she appreciates the art of smoking. Some women looked picturesque when they did it, many men looked charming with a cigarette between their hands as well. But Artoria has found she does not care much for tobacco in her lungs, and that the act always made her look and feel small. ]
I should know as much now, shouldn't I?
[ That was the way with the both of them– they only ever did what they wanted, except when it came to "business" (they never discuss how such whims are simply to uphold this illusion of freedom, in the end "business" ruled all aspects of their lives and beings).
She leaves the fire to its own devices and moves to her desk, a large, dark imposing thing that is older than her and will no doubt outlive her (she had not changed much about the study in an effort to honor her family's traditions, but she had discreetly instructed a contractor to elevate the area behind her desk with a barely noticeable slope).
From her pile of gifts she pulls forth a bottle a champagne, popping it open with one hand and not so much as flinching in the face of the small explosion. ]
No.
[ She states, simply. ]
You haven't.
[ Their dynamic functioned and persisted precisely because there were never any disruptions. What they were and what they did fit seamlessly into the fabric of the rest of their lives. No space needed to be made for it and if there was no room they would simply not exist in that moment, not until time and space made way for them again.
She holds two glasses in one hand and pours with the other, spilling champagne all over her gloved hand in the process. Artoria offers one to Akeha, bubbles pouring over the edge and misting their fingers. ]
Does smoking make the drink taste any better? I've been told it does, but it all tastes like ash to me.
[She takes the offered glass, considers the question, and smiles faintly. Something about the question strikes her as innocent, and it was this trait she found most charming about Artoria.] And hardly so. That's only a myth. If anything, [she sets the cigarette down in a nearby ashtray.] it dulls the sense of taste. It's an unfortunate habit. You're lucky to not have it.
Shall we toast? To new beginnings. [She knew that neither of them took much joy in their respective roles, but neither of them were the types to speak openly on this unfortunate aspect of their lives.]
Have you been well? It's been some time since we've seen one another.
[ Her eyes follow the movements of Akeha's hands, absentmindedly fixated on the way her fingers twist around the stem of the glass and the cigarette pinched between the fingers of her other hand– smudged with a flame on one end and lipstick on the other.
Wordlessly, she clinks her glass against Akeha's. ]
No worse for wear. The holidays are as always.. chaotic.
[ "Work" deadlines alongside ill-timed family obligations made for a miserable season, if she was to be frank.
(Not that she ever would.) ]
When my father was alive we would attend mass on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. I'm unsure why I make time to go when there are so many other things I must make time for.. I suppose it's a matter of tradition.
[ Artoria drinks from her glass, and maneuvers her hands so she can pull off the sullied glove without putting her glass down. ]
And you? Any plans for the holidays? Perhaps a New Years resolution in the works to dull the senses a bit less often?
[It's more a sound of acknowledgement than anything else, initially. Even among company she knew, Akeha was a woman of few words. In lieu of responding right away, she measures her words in her head as she watches Artoria follow the motion of her hands.]
It could be tradition that drives you. Or nostalgia. Both are equally moving, in their own way.
[For a moment her eyes are the one's captured by the deft motion of Artoria's hands, though she is quick to find her focus again. She rolls one of her ankles in a gesture that seems more idle than anything — like the languid stretching of a panther.]
I am trying to stop my own father's coup.
[It is said as casually as one discusses the weather.] As he ages, he forgets tradition, I'm afraid. This is something I was expecting. He has the idea I should be wed before I'm to take my rightful place.
[She sighs then — not melancholy, nor resigned. It sounds almost bored.] Perhaps I'll have time to work on your resolution for me afterward.
[ Her expression does not shift very much, save the curious tilt of her brow at the news– which even by the standards of their world was shocking. ]
Then, I suppose we will toast to a new season filled with fewer nuisances and ample free time.
[ It is as much a joke as anything else, she may as well have donned a clown nose and called herself a court jester– that would be as comical as the prospect of either of those things.
Artoria leans back, takes another sip from her glass and all the while considers all the many aspects and caveats to the information Akeha has offered her. Such conflicts weren't common in their line of work– most men had at least one son to avoid these sorts of things. The two of them were abnormalities, and Artoria's father had foreseen such things and instead raised her more to be Son than Daughter. Daughters married, outsiders could not be trusted to carry on your will the same way your progeny might.
She thinks Akeha will succeed, but her position would not allow her to bet either way. ]
A shame for the man your father has no doubt picked as your groom-to-be.
[ She sets her glass down and leans forward again, the cold fingertips of her still gloved hand brushing against Akeha's leg in passing. ]
– deprived of the chance to marry a woman his superior by leagues and soon to be deprived of his life.
[ She decides in that moment that her hand brushes against Akeha's leg that she likes it there, and so she lets it stay there, fingers tapping playfully against her skin. ]
I could imagine you married, I think. Not for very long if your father were to choose your betrothed, but married no less.
[Praise normally does not affect her. She has been called beautiful; she has been called skilled. Superior too, efficient, intelligent. All of these things flow into the sea of her indifference, along with other things, painful things — the horrific training and all the blows she had received, the killing of innocents, her use as a tool. Her meaning, which was nothing outside of the role she had been born into, and the role she would die carrying.
Only Artoria's praise meant anything at all. Akeha does not waste time pondering the why of this: she knows why, and it is painful to consider for too long. She says nothing in response, but she allows herself to smile at it some, a smile that does not fade into nothingness right away. It lingers in her eyes as she allows Artoria's hand to stay where it is — turning into it slightly, but making no advances of her own. Not yet.
[ Sometimes, Akeha took the lead. Occasionally, she gave chase. Artoria's partners were few and far in-between, a consequence of her position and the sort of ambiguous presentation that she had adopted– but in most cases (cases that were not this) she lead, drew the lines and only allowed as much as she wanted to offer (or as much as it made sense to offer).
The situation before her also had its own boundaries and caveats, but it was more uninhibited than most things she'd taken part in.
A smile graces her features at Akeha's question, something fond in her voice when she answers. ]
The patient kind– unexpectedly girlish and clumsy in ways one might not expect.
[ She remembers still, last summer when she'd invited Akeha to her home for a night in. Artoria had asked her to watch boiling pasta for only a few minutes, set a timer and asked her to strain it when it went off.
The pasta was one block of starch by the time she returned and in the end they'd ordered takeout.
Her hand drifts higher, the smooth surface of her gloves gliding across her skin and coming to rest above the knee under her dress– her fingertips just barely touch thigh. ]
The kind that is always one step ahead of you, aware of your every thought, inclination and misstep– for better, or for worse.
[Artoria's touch is light, her gloved fingertips cool against the warmth of Akeha's skin. She is conditioned in all things, can face a the tip of a pointed blade a hair's breadth away from her eye without flinching. And yet each brush of fingertips feels as intimate as a kiss, and she finds that she shivers at it. She lowers her own glass. Her hand comes to brush against Artoria's shoulder, then lingers there, lightly stroking the fabric of her shirt, making thoughtless patterns.]
You're thinking of the pasta again.
[She sounds amused, at least.]
I wonder if I would truly be such a wife. So diligent... perhaps. [She sounds almost wistful. A woman with a household run like a fine-tuned clock, who still could not master the art of boiling water. It almost makes her smile.]
[ Under her fingertips she can feel the ripple effect of her touch; the shivers that follow are an echo and her own body responds in turn with pinpricks across her spine, hand making the short climb to rest properly on her thigh.
Artoria looks sheepish, Akeha peers into her mind with little effort. ]
You prove my point effortlessly. But yes, I do mourn that dinner when I find myself feeling sentimental.
[ Often these things were quick, messy and rife with unfulfilled longing– carved into busy schedules as an outlet for all the things they were not allowed to dwell upon.
Sometimes, and these were her favorite meetings, these things were almost painfully slow to build. The soft touches and impatient sighs, all snowballing into something nearly overpowering.
Her gaze follows the curve of Akeha's arm, down to the hand at her collar. The gesture makes her lean forward slightly, the hand on Akeha's thigh squeezes.
Despite the tense undercurrent in their physical gestures, Artoria's smile is self-deprecating. ]
Someone naive, perhaps. So that you could go about your affairs with little interference.
[ And then, she thinks about it seriously . ]
Someone loyal, because I believe that if you were to wed anyone by your own choice you would be nothing but.
[ Artoria all but nearly closes the distance between them, the sofa creaking as she shifts her weight. ]
Someone who could surprise you continuously, so that you could bear the monotony of being with them for the rest of your days.
Hm. [She half-laughs at this, another rarity, and it hides the catch in her voice.] There is no need to mourn. We'll have to try again at a later date.
[The hand on Artoria's collar migrates to her cheek, which she strokes, as if to comfort her, and then back down again, where she undoes her tie in one sharp tug. Here her hand lingers on her collarbone, slides over the bit of skin she's exposed.
Some of the others in her household said that they came alive in a hunt, sharpened to a killing point by the knowledge that their quarry was near. But Akeha spends her days in dreamlike fog, and save the hyperawareness that accompanied her during missions, she felt very little at all.
This is the thing that wakes her, unfreezes the blood in her veins. Her hand dips under Artoria's shirt to rest on the spot where her heart beats, and there it stays. Artoria leans in close enough to kiss, and so Akeha tilts her head up, but only to speak softly into her ear.]
What a fine spouse you've given me. I wonder where I could possibly find such a person on short notice.
[It is difficult to do so in the dress she's wearing, but she brings one leg up to hook around Artoria's waist, the heel of her shoe digging just so into the small of her back.]
So that we might elope, and put an end to my father's scheming.
[ If she was much much younger and much more open about being eager to please, she would have jut forward at the hand on her chest. She would have dove headfirst at the lips near her ears.
Here and now, after years of practice, she only nearly lurches at the sharp pressure from Akeha's heel on her back. Her fingertips dig into the skin of her thigh, so little a delay between the stimulus and stimuli that they might seem simultaneous. ]
It is difficult to say... but such things are often not very far from where they are needed.
[ she turns her head, the last syllable of her sentence brushing against Akeha's cheek.
With her free had she grasps the edge of the sofa, using it to leverage her weight. She uses gravity and her own body to bring them both down some. ]
Perhaps they are in plain sight, wrapped within the clutches of another needlessly complicated legacy.
[ Her fingers climb higher and come to sit on the inside of her thigh, tapping still, like a vehicle with a stalled engined. ]
What an occasion that would be. I can only imagine the ripples such a thing would cause. An end to two dynasties by the way of one marriage.
[ The tapping pauses for a moment. ]
Next time, I think I will supervise any necessary kitchen activities and leave you to answer the door.
[ the thought has been lingering in her mind for some time. ]
[At the bite of fingernails into her thigh, Akeha hisses through her teeth. It is a slight noise, barely heard, but significant, all the same. Artoria pushes them further down, and now Akeha's back is properly against the couch. In response, she tightens her own grip, and is certain there will be a bruise on Artoria's back tomorrow in the same spot that the tip of her heel was making an indentation in.
The thought makes her smile widen some.]
I suppose — [The catch in her voice is more audible now, despite the maddening calm of her voice, as if they are blandly discussing the weather.]
I suppose they may be.
[Her hand moves up to cup Artoria's cheek again. Her gaze is level, and even on her back on a sofa, it carries the same weight as it did normally.]
Ah, the scandal...
[If she were a girl still, she might squirm beneath Artoria's hands and the weight of her body, she might flush pink and make little encouraging noises. As it was, she keeps mostly still, though, the only hint of impatience being the constant pressure of her heel.] The families would have to adapt, or perish. Is that not the way of predators? I would be more pleased to think of my theoretical honeymoon.
[The roaming hand has stalled, and though Akeha begins to feel the stirrings of impatience at last, she gives no indication of this. When she leans up again, her mouth brushes over Artoria's earlobe.]
A fair compromise, for now. You will have to teach me the art of cooking at some point.
[She nudges a little with her heel.]
I believe that answering your door will cause something of its own scandal.
[ The steady pain of Akeha's heel boring against her back is what keeps her own impatience at bay. The sensation is as pleasant as it is painful, and more importantly it is a sign of Akeha's own want.
Her need to serve and her ego revel quietly in that knowledge.
Somehow, she manages to maintain her composure even as the warm heat of Akeha's mouth hovers over her ear.
Mostly, at least– her nails dig deeper into the skin of Akeha's thigh, hard enough now to leave a faint scar. ]
I cannot help but wonder if some part of you might enjoy that.
[ The sting of her nails lessens, and finally her hand pulls away to land lightly between Akeha's legs. ]
You are many things.. some wonderful, some disquieting.
[ One finger presses slow circles against the fabric of Akeha's underwear. Her touch is light, only a whisper of pressure. ]
But a chef.. I'm unsure any amount of tutelage will earn you that title.
[ her hand stops. ]
We all have our flaws–
[ Artoria sits up, now positioned in Akeha's lap– back still pressed against her heel, pushing back some as if to inflict more pain upon herself.
She removes her hand from between Akeha's legs and with it she undoes her buttons, her other hand pulling her hair free from its tight updo.
Her shirt is open just enough to reveal the slight curve of her breasts, and a silky sort of navy in the form of lacy undergarments. Her hair falls around her shoulders, and she pushes it away with the back of her still gloved hand. ]
–Let us not discuss them today. Speak to me about this honeymoon.. where you would go, what you would wear and what you would do.
[The smile Artoria earns in response to this is rarer still than the last — one that is sharp and comes with the hint of teeth. The bite of fingernails into her thigh is an intermittent mingling of pain and pleasure, and later she will trace her fingers along the purple half-moons left behind, thinking of the woman who had caused them.]
As always, your bravery earns my sincerest admiration. Most would not dare to speak to me in such a way — [The words blur into a sound that is soft, wanting and more seen in the way she swallows, hard, than heard at all. Her lashes flutter; her head tilts back just so. Artoria's touch is barely a touch at all, and yet it causes warmth to flood her senses.
Her composure finds itself, after a delay. She stares up at Artoria, her hair spilling over her shoulders and her shirt half-undone, and her gaze sharpens, becomes focused and intent.
Slowly, she sits up herself, the unrelenting pressure of her heel against Artoria's back beginning to abate, and slides her dress off her shoulders. The tattoos painted along her shoulders and back stand in greater relief now, ink petals and feathers burning dark against her pale skin. Her bra is all dark lace, and the only color seems to be the growing flush winding its way up her neck. Her hair has become only slightly undone, and a lock curls itself along the sweep of her collarbone.]
But as for the topic of my honeymoon...
[She plucks another one of Artoria's buttons open. She gently pushes away the fabric of her shirt.] I cannot say for certain. These things are usually so intimate, are they not? I suppose I might defer to my spouse...
Would they be patient, I wonder? Hm. Would they have planned our trip away? Or would they be, ah, the overeager sort?
[She toys with the navy blue lace of Artoria's bra, but does not deign to touch her further. Not yet, anyway.
Her voice is as soft as it always was, and her gaze holds Artoria's own.]
Perhaps we would have one another in the car. Or be chauffeured, I suppose, and they might take me in the back of the limousine. A scandal for records, by any measure... but such things would be beyond us. Do you not agree?
[ Akeha is superior at playing coy. Artoria has, over the years, developed skill enough to make this enjoyable for Akeha but she cannot help but frown, childishly offended at the mention of the word overeager.
(Quite a feat, when Akeha has begun the process of underdressing. If one asked her whether she favored certain features or assets, she would say no. But if she were to think about it much more deeply, Akeha's presence in her life had been formative– and though her dalliances with others were rare, she found she had a preference for curvier women.) ]
I hardly think they would be so eager that they could not–
[ Her words find pause when Akeha's hand drifts toward her, her touch ghosting across the lace of her bra. It is a magic spell somehow, and she falls back into step and key. ]
What a special occasion it must be, if you of all people would allow yourself to be taken. But if that is what you desire then I think your spouse would oblige.. if she is eager for anything it is to see so much more of you painted red.
[ Her hand rests on Akeha's cheek, sliding down the flushed skin of her neck. ]
Your spouse would have been waiting for some time, you know. There would be a ceremony–
[ Hands on either side of Akeha, Artoria pulls at her dress down with a series of slow tugs. ]
A reception as well, with dinner and dancing. So many goodbyes to give and well wishes to receive.
[ The top half of her dress is bunched up at her waist, Artoria's hands rest there. ]
It will have been hours by the time you'd find yourself in the back of that limousine, their hand already sitting between your legs...
[With her other partners (few and far between, and only on occasions where she allowed herself to feel loneliness), Akeha does not allow them to take the lead. She does not allow them to touch her with the tenderness Artoria does now. She undresses herself, always aware of the danger in being so vulnerable. But there are no such things here, only a rolling, languid sort of heat coursing through her, mingled with adrenaline and anticipation.
The room is warm, and yet she shivers again as she is undressed, keenly aware of each brush of Artoria's fingers against her bare skin. She listens, her gaze hooded, and takes her time in responding. She does not allow herself to indulge in fancy often, and so if she imagines this wedding and the sharp needling of impatience at having to wait for hours while exchanging banalities, it is hard to say. Instead, she shifts some in the gentle cage of Artoria's hands, and first moves to carefully pull at the ornate pin holding up her hair. This is a deadly thing in her hands, like most things were, but at the moment it is a nuisance that she sets off to the side.]
Hours... [She repeats, her tone thoughtful.] My. That would test even my patience. [Then she moves, as if to rest her hands over Artoria's own. Instead, one slips between her thighs, and even with the lower half of her dress obscuring the view, it is clear what she's doing, seen in the way her lashes flutter and her head tilts back. Her breath catches hard in her throat.
It is a long while before she pulls her hand away, and the color is high in her cheeks. She places her wet fingers against Artoria's mouth, and uses her other hand to take gentle hold of one of Artoria's wrists, guiding her hand until it settles on her thigh.
Her voice when she speaks again is soft, as it always is.]
[ An offended exclamation is her first response– she nearly reaches for Akeha's hand to stop her. Her pride is what makes her so good at this: serving her partners was more for herself than it was for them (because she felt most comfortable serving the needs of others, and because there is a power in someone needing you in such a way).
Her pride is what makes her, occasionally insufferable as well.
But she stops short of disturbing Akeha while she is in the act, less by choice and more so because she is transfixed by the sight of her– flushed skin, fluttering eyelashes, lips parted, coming together only to make inaudible sounds.
Her throat is dry when Akeha brings her fingers to Artoria's mouth, and she sucks on them like a woman who has been deprived drink for weeks. The warm, salty wetness she manages to suckle from her skin renews her spirit, and when Akeha guides her hand she obliges.
Her fingers climb Akeha's thigh and navigate between lacey cloth and wet skin, finding their target easily. Her thumb circles slowly. ]
I think she would serve her bride happily.
[ Artoria leans down, peppering languid kisses across Akeha's exposed skin. She speaks her words across the red flush of Akeha's chest. ]
But she despite their shared restlessness.. she would take her time and relish this moment. After all, it is rare that her bride would let her eagerness be so readily apparent.
[ She looks up, face all but resting between Akeha's breasts. Her hand moves faster, thumb pressing just a bit harder.
There's a glimmer of something almost arrogant in her eyes. ]
Do you remember the first time? When we were practically children? You were so cute then.. so shy.. so encouraging.
[Akeha watches Artoria lick her fingers clean, and feels something unfurl itself in her stomach, filling her with languid, liquid heat. Though she is the one that guides Artoria's hand between her thighs, she is not prepared for the sensation of it. So odd, when she is so often prepared for everything. This time, she cannot quell the little noise she makes: an unsteady sigh, a slight gasp that she cuts off by biting her lower lip. Her head tilts back some; she shifts in subdued impatience and rolls her hips gently forward. All signs of weakness, says the part of her that was always calculating risk and threat, and she banishes the thought.
Artoria would not harm her. She was the only person in her life that would not do such a thing, and this thought is the thing that makes her look away, embarrassed. The blush rising to life on her skin paints her pale neck a flushed pink. It takes her longer than she wants to respond, and her voice now has a lower edge, the velvet calm of it beginning to fray at the edges with want.]
... Would she? [The question is soft, barely above a whisper.] How cruel, that she would torment me so. [This is accompanied by the barest of smiles, even as she squirms just so beneath the warmth of Artoria's mouth, and swallows all the noises she wants to make.] But such torment makes the end result all the sweeter, does it not? [Her voice blurs. The words are caught in a jumble in her throat when Artoria increases her pace, and for a time she can't think of much to say at all.
Then, she begins to pull herself up, and when she does she leans her forehead against Artoria's, deliberately pressing herself closer. When she speaks again, it is in a low and intent whisper, her lipstick smudging against Artoria's cheek.]
I remember. I remember your nervousness very vividly. And your fumbling, as well — your excitement was always so charming.
[ She wants to argue, to be startled and offended. But she can't be either of those things for very long, the irony of the situation is too embarrassing. Caught up in her own overeagerness she has miscalculated and lost the upper hand, something that Akeha very rarely gave up to another for very long.
Artoria groans without making a sound: her lips part, and she makes a face as if she is experiencing some kind of pain. She is her own self-fulfilling prophecy because she cannot get close enough soon enough. ]
You are as cruel as you ever were.
[ Artoria shifts her hand between Akeha's legs, angling it just so— she slips two fingers inside of her, keeping steady pace with the finger still rubbing circles against her. ]
You toy with me so— one day you might come to regret it. I may fumble when it matters most.
[ And then her hand stops altogether, stationed inside of her like a threat.
She tries to steady her breathing, it would hardly be much of a threat if she was bursting at the seams herself. ]
[This time, Akeha's gasp is audible, surprised — a burst of air against Artoria's ear. Her hand settles on the back of Artoria's neck, then cards through her hair. The gesture is tender for all the suddenness of it, and then she laughs. It's soft, warm, and would be scarcely heard if she were not so close.]
Cruel? No. Not to you. [She shivers, her body tightening around Artoria's fingers, and sighs out her name. She closes her eyes, rocks her hips forward into the motion, letting her body fall into the motion and be carried by it. She is a weapon in the hands of others, but in Artoria's hands she becomes something else entirely. An instrument to be played and to have sounds sweetly plied out of her, made to follow a rhythm and song.
Artoria stops, and again her body tightens helplessly around her. Akeha breathes out and she might have been able to hide her lack of composure were it not for the way it shuddered out at the end.]
If you were, then I would be truly cruel, Artoria. [Her mouth brushes her earlobe, and she takes it between her teeth, gently biting down.] I'll torment you endlessly, this night, and all the other nights we might yet have.
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These places were normally an escape for people who had no desire to confront their real lives, but such needs were tenfold around the holidays it seemed. When she was younger she thought it a bit sad, but these days she doesn't think much of it at all.
It is Christmas Eve, the music is louder than usual and the people occupying the club force themselves to be more lively in turn. Artoria weaves them through crowds of drunk, jolly, and downtrodden clubgoers, cutting off attempts at conversation with polite smiles and curt nods. The regulars knew her well despite her attempts to leave this aspect of her family's "business" in the hands of her associates– they made fun of her often for humoring every hello, conversation and request. She likely would have on this night as well, if she was not already entertaining company.
A gloved hand just barely presses against the small of Akeha's back as she guides them through the bar, passed the VIP section, and deep into the section of the club restricted only for fellow associates. She fumbles some with the key to the office, perhaps far too aware of the warm presence hovering over her shoulder.
The door opens finally, revealing dark wood, hues of blue and silver, and a family crest and coat of arms on the wall behind the imposing desk at the end of the room. There is mistletoe hanging above the door frame, and a small pile of mismatched presents on her desk– gifts from patrons, associates, and residents of the portion of the city her family controlled.
She holds the door and lets Akeha step in first before she closes it– ever the gentleman. ]
Are you sure this is how you'd like to spend your Christmas eve?
[ She speaks, finally. She has been mulling on the question for quite some time– when something was on her mind she could not speak of anything else, even if she was confronted with another situation that required a casual hello or something far more urgent; and if she was not prepared to speak what was on her mind she opted to say nothing at all.
Artoria lights the fireplace along the wall, gas and wood coming together to birth a crackling flame in little time. The warmth seeps across the carpet and into the rest of the room, and she slips off the jacket of her suit. ]
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She is known here too — she is known most places in this city, though the welcomes she receives are far more subdued, and the looks she gets are surreptitious and cautious. This is typical, for her family was known for far worse than her companion's, and with the day of her ascension to the head of her family fast approaching, there was no doubt that whispers had begun to circulate. Her father had told her once that infamy was better than being forgotten, and so she keeps her head held high, her gaze focused. Occasionally, she even affords the overly-polite hellos she receives the barest of smiles, or a light touch of her gloved hand on a shoulder or wrist.
She is not here for them, and only cares about Artoria's opinion besides, but it was good to gain favor where you could. She is nonetheless grateful to be led inside to the study, and relaxes some as the door closes behind the two of them, hiding them from prying eyes.
She slips out of her coat without waiting for Artoria to offer to take it, and hangs it on the coat holder with the air of familiarity. Then she sits without answering, crossing one leg over the other, and reaches in her handbag for a lighter and her cigarettes.]
May I smoke here?
[She's already lighting the cigarette as she asks, takes a drag, and blows out smoke in hazy winding patterns. Her gaze focuses first on Artoria, then at the fire.]
If I did not want to spend my time here, I wouldn't have come.
[Her answer is delivered softly, and without offense. She is rarely hesitant or unsure of her place, and so her tone has an amused lilt when she asks her own question in return.]
Have I disrupted your evening?
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I should know as much now, shouldn't I?
[ That was the way with the both of them– they only ever did what they wanted, except when it came to "business" (they never discuss how such whims are simply to uphold this illusion of freedom, in the end "business" ruled all aspects of their lives and beings).
She leaves the fire to its own devices and moves to her desk, a large, dark imposing thing that is older than her and will no doubt outlive her (she had not changed much about the study in an effort to honor her family's traditions, but she had discreetly instructed a contractor to elevate the area behind her desk with a barely noticeable slope).
From her pile of gifts she pulls forth a bottle a champagne, popping it open with one hand and not so much as flinching in the face of the small explosion. ]
No.
[ She states, simply. ]
You haven't.
[ Their dynamic functioned and persisted precisely because there were never any disruptions. What they were and what they did fit seamlessly into the fabric of the rest of their lives. No space needed to be made for it and if there was no room they would simply not exist in that moment, not until time and space made way for them again.
She holds two glasses in one hand and pours with the other, spilling champagne all over her gloved hand in the process. Artoria offers one to Akeha, bubbles pouring over the edge and misting their fingers. ]
Does smoking make the drink taste any better? I've been told it does, but it all tastes like ash to me.
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[She takes the offered glass, considers the question, and smiles faintly. Something about the question strikes her as innocent, and it was this trait she found most charming about Artoria.] And hardly so. That's only a myth. If anything, [she sets the cigarette down in a nearby ashtray.] it dulls the sense of taste. It's an unfortunate habit. You're lucky to not have it.
Shall we toast? To new beginnings. [She knew that neither of them took much joy in their respective roles, but neither of them were the types to speak openly on this unfortunate aspect of their lives.]
Have you been well? It's been some time since we've seen one another.
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[ Her eyes follow the movements of Akeha's hands, absentmindedly fixated on the way her fingers twist around the stem of the glass and the cigarette pinched between the fingers of her other hand– smudged with a flame on one end and lipstick on the other.
Wordlessly, she clinks her glass against Akeha's. ]
No worse for wear. The holidays are as always.. chaotic.
[ "Work" deadlines alongside ill-timed family obligations made for a miserable season, if she was to be frank.
(Not that she ever would.) ]
When my father was alive we would attend mass on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. I'm unsure why I make time to go when there are so many other things I must make time for.. I suppose it's a matter of tradition.
[ Artoria drinks from her glass, and maneuvers her hands so she can pull off the sullied glove without putting her glass down. ]
And you? Any plans for the holidays? Perhaps a New Years resolution in the works to dull the senses a bit less often?
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[It's more a sound of acknowledgement than anything else, initially. Even among company she knew, Akeha was a woman of few words. In lieu of responding right away, she measures her words in her head as she watches Artoria follow the motion of her hands.]
It could be tradition that drives you. Or nostalgia. Both are equally moving, in their own way.
[For a moment her eyes are the one's captured by the deft motion of Artoria's hands, though she is quick to find her focus again. She rolls one of her ankles in a gesture that seems more idle than anything — like the languid stretching of a panther.]
I am trying to stop my own father's coup.
[It is said as casually as one discusses the weather.] As he ages, he forgets tradition, I'm afraid. This is something I was expecting. He has the idea I should be wed before I'm to take my rightful place.
[She sighs then — not melancholy, nor resigned. It sounds almost bored.] Perhaps I'll have time to work on your resolution for me afterward.
[This is finished with the barest of smiles.]
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Then, I suppose we will toast to a new season filled with fewer nuisances and ample free time.
[ It is as much a joke as anything else, she may as well have donned a clown nose and called herself a court jester– that would be as comical as the prospect of either of those things.
Artoria leans back, takes another sip from her glass and all the while considers all the many aspects and caveats to the information Akeha has offered her. Such conflicts weren't common in their line of work– most men had at least one son to avoid these sorts of things. The two of them were abnormalities, and Artoria's father had foreseen such things and instead raised her more to be Son than Daughter. Daughters married, outsiders could not be trusted to carry on your will the same way your progeny might.
She thinks Akeha will succeed, but her position would not allow her to bet either way. ]
A shame for the man your father has no doubt picked as your groom-to-be.
[ She sets her glass down and leans forward again, the cold fingertips of her still gloved hand brushing against Akeha's leg in passing. ]
– deprived of the chance to marry a woman his superior by leagues and soon to be deprived of his life.
[ She decides in that moment that her hand brushes against Akeha's leg that she likes it there, and so she lets it stay there, fingers tapping playfully against her skin. ]
I could imagine you married, I think. Not for very long if your father were to choose your betrothed, but married no less.
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Only Artoria's praise meant anything at all. Akeha does not waste time pondering the why of this: she knows why, and it is painful to consider for too long. She says nothing in response, but she allows herself to smile at it some, a smile that does not fade into nothingness right away. It lingers in her eyes as she allows Artoria's hand to stay where it is — turning into it slightly, but making no advances of her own. Not yet.
She's curious.]
Oh? And what sort of wife do you imagine I'd be?
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The situation before her also had its own boundaries and caveats, but it was more uninhibited than most things she'd taken part in.
A smile graces her features at Akeha's question, something fond in her voice when she answers. ]
The patient kind– unexpectedly girlish and clumsy in ways one might not expect.
[ She remembers still, last summer when she'd invited Akeha to her home for a night in. Artoria had asked her to watch boiling pasta for only a few minutes, set a timer and asked her to strain it when it went off.
The pasta was one block of starch by the time she returned and in the end they'd ordered takeout.
Her hand drifts higher, the smooth surface of her gloves gliding across her skin and coming to rest above the knee under her dress– her fingertips just barely touch thigh. ]
The kind that is always one step ahead of you, aware of your every thought, inclination and misstep– for better, or for worse.
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You're thinking of the pasta again.
[She sounds amused, at least.]
I wonder if I would truly be such a wife. So diligent... perhaps. [She sounds almost wistful. A woman with a household run like a fine-tuned clock, who still could not master the art of boiling water. It almost makes her smile.]
I wonder.
[She plucks at Artoria's collar, flirting now.]
What sort of spouse would fit such a wife?
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Artoria looks sheepish, Akeha peers into her mind with little effort. ]
You prove my point effortlessly. But yes, I do mourn that dinner when I find myself feeling sentimental.
[ Often these things were quick, messy and rife with unfulfilled longing– carved into busy schedules as an outlet for all the things they were not allowed to dwell upon.
Sometimes, and these were her favorite meetings, these things were almost painfully slow to build. The soft touches and impatient sighs, all snowballing into something nearly overpowering.
Her gaze follows the curve of Akeha's arm, down to the hand at her collar. The gesture makes her lean forward slightly, the hand on Akeha's thigh squeezes.
Despite the tense undercurrent in their physical gestures, Artoria's smile is self-deprecating. ]
Someone naive, perhaps. So that you could go about your affairs with little interference.
[ And then, she thinks about it seriously . ]
Someone loyal, because I believe that if you were to wed anyone by your own choice you would be nothing but.
[ Artoria all but nearly closes the distance between them, the sofa creaking as she shifts her weight. ]
Someone who could surprise you continuously, so that you could bear the monotony of being with them for the rest of your days.
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[The hand on Artoria's collar migrates to her cheek, which she strokes, as if to comfort her, and then back down again, where she undoes her tie in one sharp tug. Here her hand lingers on her collarbone, slides over the bit of skin she's exposed.
Some of the others in her household said that they came alive in a hunt, sharpened to a killing point by the knowledge that their quarry was near. But Akeha spends her days in dreamlike fog, and save the hyperawareness that accompanied her during missions, she felt very little at all.
This is the thing that wakes her, unfreezes the blood in her veins. Her hand dips under Artoria's shirt to rest on the spot where her heart beats, and there it stays. Artoria leans in close enough to kiss, and so Akeha tilts her head up, but only to speak softly into her ear.]
What a fine spouse you've given me. I wonder where I could possibly find such a person on short notice.
[It is difficult to do so in the dress she's wearing, but she brings one leg up to hook around Artoria's waist, the heel of her shoe digging just so into the small of her back.]
So that we might elope, and put an end to my father's scheming.
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Here and now, after years of practice, she only nearly lurches at the sharp pressure from Akeha's heel on her back. Her fingertips dig into the skin of her thigh, so little a delay between the stimulus and stimuli that they might seem simultaneous. ]
It is difficult to say... but such things are often not very far from where they are needed.
[ she turns her head, the last syllable of her sentence brushing against Akeha's cheek.
With her free had she grasps the edge of the sofa, using it to leverage her weight. She uses gravity and her own body to bring them both down some. ]
Perhaps they are in plain sight, wrapped within the clutches of another needlessly complicated legacy.
[ Her fingers climb higher and come to sit on the inside of her thigh, tapping still, like a vehicle with a stalled engined. ]
What an occasion that would be. I can only imagine the ripples such a thing would cause. An end to two dynasties by the way of one marriage.
[ The tapping pauses for a moment. ]
Next time, I think I will supervise any necessary kitchen activities and leave you to answer the door.
[ the thought has been lingering in her mind for some time. ]
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The thought makes her smile widen some.]
I suppose — [The catch in her voice is more audible now, despite the maddening calm of her voice, as if they are blandly discussing the weather.]
I suppose they may be.
[Her hand moves up to cup Artoria's cheek again. Her gaze is level, and even on her back on a sofa, it carries the same weight as it did normally.]
Ah, the scandal...
[If she were a girl still, she might squirm beneath Artoria's hands and the weight of her body, she might flush pink and make little encouraging noises. As it was, she keeps mostly still, though, the only hint of impatience being the constant pressure of her heel.] The families would have to adapt, or perish. Is that not the way of predators? I would be more pleased to think of my theoretical honeymoon.
[The roaming hand has stalled, and though Akeha begins to feel the stirrings of impatience at last, she gives no indication of this. When she leans up again, her mouth brushes over Artoria's earlobe.]
A fair compromise, for now. You will have to teach me the art of cooking at some point.
[She nudges a little with her heel.]
I believe that answering your door will cause something of its own scandal.
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Her need to serve and her ego revel quietly in that knowledge.
Somehow, she manages to maintain her composure even as the warm heat of Akeha's mouth hovers over her ear.
Mostly, at least– her nails dig deeper into the skin of Akeha's thigh, hard enough now to leave a faint scar. ]
I cannot help but wonder if some part of you might enjoy that.
[ The sting of her nails lessens, and finally her hand pulls away to land lightly between Akeha's legs. ]
You are many things.. some wonderful, some disquieting.
[ One finger presses slow circles against the fabric of Akeha's underwear. Her touch is light, only a whisper of pressure. ]
But a chef.. I'm unsure any amount of tutelage will earn you that title.
[ her hand stops. ]
We all have our flaws–
[ Artoria sits up, now positioned in Akeha's lap– back still pressed against her heel, pushing back some as if to inflict more pain upon herself.
She removes her hand from between Akeha's legs and with it she undoes her buttons, her other hand pulling her hair free from its tight updo.
Her shirt is open just enough to reveal the slight curve of her breasts, and a silky sort of navy in the form of lacy undergarments. Her hair falls around her shoulders, and she pushes it away with the back of her still gloved hand. ]
–Let us not discuss them today. Speak to me about this honeymoon.. where you would go, what you would wear and what you would do.
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As always, your bravery earns my sincerest admiration. Most would not dare to speak to me in such a way — [The words blur into a sound that is soft, wanting and more seen in the way she swallows, hard, than heard at all. Her lashes flutter; her head tilts back just so. Artoria's touch is barely a touch at all, and yet it causes warmth to flood her senses.
Her composure finds itself, after a delay. She stares up at Artoria, her hair spilling over her shoulders and her shirt half-undone, and her gaze sharpens, becomes focused and intent.
Slowly, she sits up herself, the unrelenting pressure of her heel against Artoria's back beginning to abate, and slides her dress off her shoulders. The tattoos painted along her shoulders and back stand in greater relief now, ink petals and feathers burning dark against her pale skin. Her bra is all dark lace, and the only color seems to be the growing flush winding its way up her neck. Her hair has become only slightly undone, and a lock curls itself along the sweep of her collarbone.]
But as for the topic of my honeymoon...
[She plucks another one of Artoria's buttons open. She gently pushes away the fabric of her shirt.] I cannot say for certain. These things are usually so intimate, are they not? I suppose I might defer to my spouse...
Would they be patient, I wonder? Hm. Would they have planned our trip away? Or would they be, ah, the overeager sort?
[She toys with the navy blue lace of Artoria's bra, but does not deign to touch her further. Not yet, anyway.
Her voice is as soft as it always was, and her gaze holds Artoria's own.]
Perhaps we would have one another in the car. Or be chauffeured, I suppose, and they might take me in the back of the limousine. A scandal for records, by any measure... but such things would be beyond us. Do you not agree?
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(Quite a feat, when Akeha has begun the process of underdressing. If one asked her whether she favored certain features or assets, she would say no. But if she were to think about it much more deeply, Akeha's presence in her life had been formative– and though her dalliances with others were rare, she found she had a preference for curvier women.) ]
I hardly think they would be so eager that they could not–
[ Her words find pause when Akeha's hand drifts toward her, her touch ghosting across the lace of her bra. It is a magic spell somehow, and she falls back into step and key. ]
What a special occasion it must be, if you of all people would allow yourself to be taken. But if that is what you desire then I think your spouse would oblige.. if she is eager for anything it is to see so much more of you painted red.
[ Her hand rests on Akeha's cheek, sliding down the flushed skin of her neck. ]
Your spouse would have been waiting for some time, you know. There would be a ceremony–
[ Hands on either side of Akeha, Artoria pulls at her dress down with a series of slow tugs. ]
A reception as well, with dinner and dancing. So many goodbyes to give and well wishes to receive.
[ The top half of her dress is bunched up at her waist, Artoria's hands rest there. ]
It will have been hours by the time you'd find yourself in the back of that limousine, their hand already sitting between your legs...
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The room is warm, and yet she shivers again as she is undressed, keenly aware of each brush of Artoria's fingers against her bare skin. She listens, her gaze hooded, and takes her time in responding. She does not allow herself to indulge in fancy often, and so if she imagines this wedding and the sharp needling of impatience at having to wait for hours while exchanging banalities, it is hard to say. Instead, she shifts some in the gentle cage of Artoria's hands, and first moves to carefully pull at the ornate pin holding up her hair. This is a deadly thing in her hands, like most things were, but at the moment it is a nuisance that she sets off to the side.]
Hours... [She repeats, her tone thoughtful.] My. That would test even my patience. [Then she moves, as if to rest her hands over Artoria's own. Instead, one slips between her thighs, and even with the lower half of her dress obscuring the view, it is clear what she's doing, seen in the way her lashes flutter and her head tilts back. Her breath catches hard in her throat.
It is a long while before she pulls her hand away, and the color is high in her cheeks. She places her wet fingers against Artoria's mouth, and uses her other hand to take gentle hold of one of Artoria's wrists, guiding her hand until it settles on her thigh.
Her voice when she speaks again is soft, as it always is.]
And what would be done then, I wonder?
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Her pride is what makes her, occasionally insufferable as well.
But she stops short of disturbing Akeha while she is in the act, less by choice and more so because she is transfixed by the sight of her– flushed skin, fluttering eyelashes, lips parted, coming together only to make inaudible sounds.
Her throat is dry when Akeha brings her fingers to Artoria's mouth, and she sucks on them like a woman who has been deprived drink for weeks. The warm, salty wetness she manages to suckle from her skin renews her spirit, and when Akeha guides her hand she obliges.
Her fingers climb Akeha's thigh and navigate between lacey cloth and wet skin, finding their target easily. Her thumb circles slowly. ]
I think she would serve her bride happily.
[ Artoria leans down, peppering languid kisses across Akeha's exposed skin. She speaks her words across the red flush of Akeha's chest. ]
But she despite their shared restlessness.. she would take her time and relish this moment. After all, it is rare that her bride would let her eagerness be so readily apparent.
[ She looks up, face all but resting between Akeha's breasts. Her hand moves faster, thumb pressing just a bit harder.
There's a glimmer of something almost arrogant in her eyes. ]
Do you remember the first time? When we were practically children? You were so cute then.. so shy.. so encouraging.
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Artoria would not harm her. She was the only person in her life that would not do such a thing, and this thought is the thing that makes her look away, embarrassed. The blush rising to life on her skin paints her pale neck a flushed pink. It takes her longer than she wants to respond, and her voice now has a lower edge, the velvet calm of it beginning to fray at the edges with want.]
... Would she? [The question is soft, barely above a whisper.] How cruel, that she would torment me so. [This is accompanied by the barest of smiles, even as she squirms just so beneath the warmth of Artoria's mouth, and swallows all the noises she wants to make.] But such torment makes the end result all the sweeter, does it not? [Her voice blurs. The words are caught in a jumble in her throat when Artoria increases her pace, and for a time she can't think of much to say at all.
Then, she begins to pull herself up, and when she does she leans her forehead against Artoria's, deliberately pressing herself closer. When she speaks again, it is in a low and intent whisper, her lipstick smudging against Artoria's cheek.]
I remember. I remember your nervousness very vividly. And your fumbling, as well — your excitement was always so charming.
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Artoria groans without making a sound: her lips part, and she makes a face as if she is experiencing some kind of pain. She is her own self-fulfilling prophecy because she cannot get close enough soon enough. ]
You are as cruel as you ever were.
[ Artoria shifts her hand between Akeha's legs, angling it just so— she slips two fingers inside of her, keeping steady pace with the finger still rubbing circles against her. ]
You toy with me so— one day you might come to regret it. I may fumble when it matters most.
[ And then her hand stops
altogether, stationed inside of her like a threat.
She tries to steady her breathing, it would hardly be much of a threat if she was bursting at the seams herself. ]
What would you do then?
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Cruel? No. Not to you. [She shivers, her body tightening around Artoria's fingers, and sighs out her name. She closes her eyes, rocks her hips forward into the motion, letting her body fall into the motion and be carried by it. She is a weapon in the hands of others, but in Artoria's hands she becomes something else entirely. An instrument to be played and to have sounds sweetly plied out of her, made to follow a rhythm and song.
Artoria stops, and again her body tightens helplessly around her. Akeha breathes out and she might have been able to hide her lack of composure were it not for the way it shuddered out at the end.]
If you were, then I would be truly cruel, Artoria. [Her mouth brushes her earlobe, and she takes it between her teeth, gently biting down.] I'll torment you endlessly, this night, and all the other nights we might yet have.