Prompt #73: Are you challenging me?

Genre: General/Humour

Rating: PG-13

He did not understand. Was it so wrong of him to think that biologically, a woman's place is not and never will be on the field of battle? They certainly possessed the mental acuity for positions of power – the entire Hermean race was testament of that, and he'd read enough of ruthless female sovereigns to know that there was no such thing as a 'proper feminine emotion'. But to serve as common foot soldiers?

He felt an unfathomable desire to smack one blonde idiot up-side the head, the next time he saw him (assuming the hot-tempered Arien hadn't gotten to him first). It was his fault that this topic even came about, and it was not a topic one broached when in the company of extra-terrestrial female soldiers. Jadeite's not-so-subtle snigger had been enough to convey his exact thoughts on the matter. The man had never had a talent for diplomacy.

The little Hermean princess seemed happy enough to weigh both sides of the argument – she and Zoisite were well-read enough to take the neutral position on pretty much all topics. But as usual, the Arien and Zeun princesses bristled and declared challenges (to which, much to his horror, his second and third command both smiled dubiously at). He imagined the bruises were forming at this very moment, and took comfort in the fact that the aforementioned princesses would not hesitate to let their great pride and indignation be known as violently as possible. Well. He'd always reminded them that underestimation got people killed.

He himself rarely voiced his opinions so readily, and even more rarely would he press his full strength when his opponent was a woman, but as his eyes followed the Magellan princess dragging her Lunarian counterpart down to their quarters for a discussion on the 'oh so amazing eyes of that Ranien officer from three-something nights ago-' he considered himself safe from an uncalled-for beating, even if she was capable of besting him in combat in heels and a skirt.

And so it was with great trepidation and wariness that he watched her approach now, standing ramrod straight under the great oak trees from Jupiter, a week after that innocent exchange. He had to admit – swordless, she could still bring many a lesser man to his knees, and that look in her eyes, though her lips curved in a wordless smile, did not bode well for him. With a sinking feeling, he knew that with his 'no fighting with the fairer sex' policy, he was about to feel it in every muscle of his body. But small talk first; wasn't that what politics were all about? "Milady."

She sashayed the last two metres to come within arms' length of him. "Why General, fancy seeing you in the gardens at this time of the day." Of course, the whole court knew that it was his custom to read under the Zeun oaks after lunch.

"Our forests on Earth are all haunted, so I must take this rare opportunity now that we are off-planet to enjoy the great outdoors."

She pealed bell-like laughter, and he felt the pressure of her gloved hand on the expanse of his uniform-clad arm. "How delightful! However," she leaned in close, "I must warn that white garments don't do so well on green grass. It leaves a rather permanent stain."

He knew this, of course, having seen childhood Jadeite and Nephrite go through white uniforms like Zoisite through books, but he politely intoned, "Thank you for the warning, I'll be sure to keep to the benches." He hoped that would be the extent of their interaction, but it didn't seem the case.

Her nearness was beginning to unsettle him now. She'd sidled up rather intimately, and he realised that she really was quite small, the top of her head barely levelling with his shoulders, and that mass of golden hair was saturated with some clean and sweet scent, and he couldn't help himself inhaling deeply. She'd hooked her arm through his somewhat stiff limb and had just leaned into his side. What made him doubly uncomfortable was the fact that he couldn't see those expressive cerulean eyes that easily betrayed her intentions (or so he thought). And by the time she'd upturned her face to gaze at him, it was too late. For him.

He didn't even see it coming. With well-placed jab, a flip of a deceptively strong wrist, and a well placed ankle, he was sprawled on the grass on his back, temporarily paralysed, the wind knocked out of him, with the sound of her bell laughter in his ringing ears. In a daze, he watched as she hitched up the flowing chiffon of her dress to her knees and knelt down to straddle him with those impossibly long legs. Her weight and heat pressed over his belly; suddenly breathless, he realised that Magellans had distinctly different attitudes concerning the wearing of underwear. Her face was so beautifully innocent, and yet-

Still stunned, he watched with half-lidded eyes as she leaned forward, her thumbs brushing the throbbing of his carotid pulse, her hands smoothing down the expanse of his torso, his abdomen… then she was hovering over him and her soft lips catching the corner of his mouth, a calculating glint in her eye, both playful and aggressive. By the time he'd finished blinking, she'd disappeared in a flurry of skirts.

As the paralysis wore off, he felt an overwhelming sense of exasperation as he realised that apart from the most horrible of grass stains sure to mark the length of his back, he had one other little problem to take care of. As soon as the tingling abated in his extremities, his hands lifted laboriously to his hip and pulled the not-so-subtle lace glove from the waistband of his pants where her deft fingers had tucked it.

A common foot soldier she most definitely was not.

Throwing the gauntlet – a challenge to a duel issued by the throwing of a gauntlet/glove