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flourchildwrites · 6 years ago

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64 and 25 on the AU mashup. I know I usually ask for Royai, but this time around can I request Havolina? Please? :D Thank you

A/N: Oh my, @ruikosakuragi ! I fell in love with this prompt the moment I saw it. You requested numbers 64 (star crossed lovers) and 25 (fairy tale AU) with a havolina ship. And when I sat down to write, I was in a terrible, terrible funk. Nothing like a little havolina angst to put me in a better mood. (We don’t have time to unpack why writing angst brightens my day.) Thank you for this prompt, and thanks for being one of my favorite readers and writers!

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Whenever Jean Havoc went missing, his mother knew where to find him. Up the stone staircases of the ivy encased castle, through corridors cloaked in thick tapestries bearing the Armstrong family crest and into the hall of portraits she went. A young boy of 12, already a knight in training, stared up at a dark-haired woman with enigmatic eyes and a kind smile. Squire Havoc didn’t put much stock in the written word; he preferred his daggers and swords, but he learned enough to decipher her name, etched into the golden plaque beneath the frame.

Princess Rebecca Talia of Catalina

La Belle au bois dormant

The boy was favored amongst the castles’ inhabitants. With sun-bleached hair, boyish freckles and a penchant for lighthearted mischief, he captured the hearts of every last scullery maid and made fast friends with the king’s young son, Alexander, a mere six months Havoc’s junior. His mother, Claudia frowned, as she watched her boy munch a stolen croissant from the kitchens while he gazed longingly at the portrait. Practically the only person who had not taken a shine to Jean was the queen, and her bedchambers were too close for comfort.

“Come away from there, my son,” Claudia beckoned. “Come quickly before the queen sees you. Why must you always return to this picture?”

Young Jean sighed, shoulders hunched forward as he tore his eyes away from the old portrait and heeded his mother’s call. He didn’t know why he returned to gaze at the woman day after day, sneaking up from the stables with straw in his sleeves and mud on his boots. But there was an undeniable connection, a pull in her directions like an invisible string of fate that bound them together no matter how far he strayed. Still, Havoc knew his mother had no stomach for such fairy tales.

“I like to keep her company,” he answered. “She’s so pretty, but her eyes are lonely. Don’t you think?”

Claudia grabbed her son’s hand and guided him quickly through the castle with featherlight footsteps. “I shouldn’t like to find you there again,” she said pointedly as if she knew he would return regardless.

Jean understood her perfectly.

…

Sixteen-year-old Jean visited her in the night when the light of the full moon spilled through the windows of the castle. While other senior squires warmed the beds of those with bodies, the sins of the flesh never occupied Jean for long. He loved them but left them with ease, ever drawn to the beloved portrait of Rebecca.

In his youth, Jean had always known to her to beautiful. But as the years passed, the young squire noticed the fullness of her rosy lips and the blush in her cheek. The swell of her breasts entranced him further, hastening lustful dreams where she led him toward a cobwebbed bedchamber. Still, Rebecca’s chestnut eyes were her most alluring feature. Ever pleading, wanting the company of a man who lived a century after the date scribbled in the corner of the painting.

“Who goes there?” A booming voice interrupted Havoc’s reverie, sounding from down the hall.

Jean stirred, muscles sluggish from the day’s exertions. It might have been better to turn tail, but the squire stood his ground. He adopted an unassuming posture and ran a hand through his unkempt hair.

“Just me, Prince Alexander,” he announced. “Squire Jean.”

The prince approached with heavy footfalls against the thick, red rug. Even in his night clothes, Alex looked intimidating, burly and otherwise big. His muscles tested the elasticity of his night tunic.

“I might have known,” he chuckled. “You’re not here for my sister Catherine, are you? I’d hate to have to challenge you to a duel, friend.”

“Too young,” Havoc smirked, cocky as ever. “I’ve always liked this painting. The woman in it is… There’s no one else like her. Too bad she’s long gone.”

Alex grinned, too broadly for Jean to ignore. He was a terrible liar at the best of times, and he loved gossip more than the washerwomen who babbled ceaselessly as they worked. Havoc cast the prince an expectant sideways glance.

“Isn’t she dead? What aren’t you telling me, Alex?”

The prince kept his own counsel for a moment, no more, before letting loose the story of sleeping beauty, Princess Rebecca, with glee. Enchanted by a bitter alchemist as an infant, the young women fell victim to a ghastly prophecy. In retaliation for her father’s hubris, she plucked her finger on a splinter while spinning flax and fell into an endless slumber.

“The sage Hohenheim managed to save her,” Alex explained, “but his counter-circle put the rest of Catalina to sleep in exchange for the princess’s life. His prophecy foretells that she will sleep until the firstborn son of the Southern Kingdom’s 12th king wakes her. And should she rule with him standing by her side, their united kingdoms will be prosperous.”

Havoc could barely believe his ears. He made a face dripping with incredulity. “And how much longer does the princess have to wait?”

“Until I wake her with a kiss,” Alex replied. “The firstborn son of the 12th king is me.”

…

“Ami Jean, lève ton verre, et surtout, ne le renverse pas! Et porte-le du frontibus…”

King Alexander’s boisterous song rattled the dust from the rafters in the great hall as he drunkenly lumbered amidst the merrymaking. The knighting ceremony was a festive occasion, beloved by the Southern Kingdom for its pageantry and splendor. Sir Vato sat in deep conversation with a Northern scholar as Sir Roy and Dame Riza cut striking figures on the dance floor. The pair’s silver armor glinted in the soft candlelight as they sashayed past Sir Kain, his arm draped over the shoulders of an attractive stable hand.

Claudia caught her son’s eye from around the curtain of the servant’s quarters. The proud glint of her gaze spoke of volumes of pride, and Sir Jean grinned dashingly in response with a toast in her direction. Claudia, whose once brown hair was now stained by starlight, would never be permitted to make merry with her son, but she watched, happy for his good fortune. And Havoc silently thanked the anonymous benefactor who championed his cause all the way to knighthood.

“Sir Jean!” Havoc turned, searching for the regal body matching the royal voice. Its owner appeared behind him, dressed in decadent purple robes.

“King Alexander.” Jean bowed with the balanced poise.

“None of that now, Havoc,” the king chuckled. “We’ve known each other too long to be beholden to formalities.”

“My greatest ambition is to be of service to you, sire.” The practiced words fell from his lips like butter, and not for the first time, Havoc wondered if he meant them.

“Then be of service, you shall,” he announced. “My father has been dead these nine months, and I find myself in want of a queen before my coronation. You will help me fetch her.”

Jean hadn’t visited Princess Rebecca’s portrait in quite some time, and at the age of 21, he had seemingly caught up to her. Nevertheless, time had ticked by quicker since King Phillip has passed. All eyes had turned to his friend, Alex.

“I hardly think you’d need me to help you find a wife,” Sir Jean offered. “Lady Maria, for example, seems up to the task, and you like her, as I recall.”

“I do like her, but,” Alex pulled Jean in close, ducking his head to whisper in his ear, “Lady Maria will not bring prosperity to my kingdom and unite us with the Catalina territory. I want her. I want Princess Rebecca. Are you with me, Sir Jean?”

Who was a knight to refuse his king?

…

The bramble of thorns encasing the Catalina territory was worse than expected. Poisonous fog stung the eyes and hovered low to the ground, claiming the lives of the wounded fallen. Dark creatures of legend and myth with tattered black wings swooped from the skies to pierce intruders with their filthy claws. Early on, Sir Roy was blinded by the gas, and Dame Riza nearly bled out after being attacked by a vicious airborne beast. Sirs Heymans and Kain escorted their fellows back to the relative safety of the Southern Kingdom.

And on the fifth day, madness set in; King Alexander was affected.

Summoning all his mental fortitude, Jean pressed onward with his ruler in tow. He grabbed the reins of the king’s horse and followed his instincts. The young knight’s sense of direction was clouded by muck and mire of his mind’s own creation, but something primal stirred, pulling Havoc along a clear path hidden in the quagmire.

At daybreak, he saw the tall turrets of an ancient castle, older and more massive than any building in the Southern Kingdom. At the foot of the castle, royal guards in dust-covered tunics slumbered, slumped against the frigid stone; their weapons still poised in their hands. The air was stale, but decay had inexplicably spared the old Kingdom of Catalina. Every detail of daily life was still and held static, tinged with a purple glow, the calling card of alchemical mayhem.

“Oh mon Dieu! It’s true,” Jean gasped. He took in greedy breaths of clean, if dank, air. Alongside him, Alex followed suit, recovering from his mania.

“I should name my firstborn son after you if we live through this,” Alex said, coughing. “How did you know that way?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” he quipped, ever the picture of ease under pressure.

Sir Jean and King Alexander navigated the winding staircases of Catalina castle. Climbing ever higher, they sought the tallest turret of the highest tower, a room that kissed the edges of the darkened clouds overhead. Somewhere along the way, Sir Jean’s feet began to move of their own accord. Without rhyme or reason, he followed a siren’s call, a haunting tune that resonated in his heart.

At last, they found her chamber. The walls were draped with dusty tapestries, and long canopy curtains fluttered in the dreary breeze, obscuring her sleeping figure from Jean’s prying eyes. Alex moved forward, pushing the curtains aside. He sat cautiously next to the sleeping woman with red lips, raven hair and slender fingers folded over her flowing red robes. Princess Rebecca looked serene but deathly pale. Havoc fought the compulsion to go to her as his friend and king laid a tender kiss on his beloved’s lips.

She remained as still and silent as the grave.

“I don’t understand,” Alex exclaimed. “I am the firstborn son of the 12th king of the Southern Kingdom. I am the only one who can break the spell.”

“It’s alchemy,” Sir Jean responded. “Things go wrong in the best transmutations. Princess Rebecca might be stuck in eternal slumber.”

The king left the princess’s bedside, not bothering to draw the curtain as he turned to leave. “Some of my best knights were harmed during this foolish endeavor,” he growled, “and for what purpose?”

Jean couldn’t help himself. He ducked under the gossamer curtain and kneeled next to the bed with a reverent posture. Havoc brought the beauty’s hands to rest in his own, so cold and small. He noticed the fabled splinter still lodged under her fingernail and plucked it out, regretting that she should be left so beautiful and unblemished against the current of time.

A breath. A twitch. The delicate flutter of her eyelashes.

“My king! She wakes!” Havoc exclaimed, standing up and pushing himself back from his intimate pose. He embellished for good measure as Alex entered the room. “You have awakened her. See?”

Chestnut eyes, a heartbreaking shade of gold veiled in melancholy cream, fluttered open and stared into Jean’s face. Her lips moved uncertainly, drawing Jean back to her bedside. He smiled, as brilliantly as the sun.

“Don’t try to speak so soon,” Sir Jean cautioned. He wet her lips tenderly with water from his canteen.

“My king,” she said, looking up at Jean.

“It is I who am your king,” Alex interrupted. He scooped her up in his arms as Havoc pocketed the splinter along with his broken heart.

…

Prophecies were a funny thing, Jean decided, as he gazed up at the official portrait of the Southern Kingdom 12th king, hung proudly in the royal family’s private suite. King Philip had always been kind to Havoc, favoring him to a fault, and promoting the child to squire at a young age despite his discipline issues. What’s more, Havoc recalled that King Phillip had never once corrected foreign dignitaries when they mistook Jean and Alex for brothers. Perhaps, Jean should have put the pieces together sooner.

Why say “the firstborn son of the 12th king” when one could simply say the 13th king? Havoc knew the answer (for all the good it did).

Princess Rebecca Talia of Catalina was now Queen Rebecca, bound by the ties of holy matrimony to Jean’s childhood friend and king. Alex was a good man and a just ruler. It pained Havoc to harbor lustful thoughts for his friend’s bride. Yet, however wrong it felt, the feel of Havoc’s mouth against the hollow of Rebecca’s throat eased his ailing conscience time and time again.

In any other life, their stars would have aligned.

“Must you always leave me so soon?” Rebecca cooed. She drew the covers playfully over her swollen belly as she watched her lover dress, preparing to leave using the secret passageway behind the bureau. Havoc tried not to stare, but it was hard to remember that, in the light of day, they could be no more than a queen and her knight.

“Damn,” he exhaled, half-tempted to throw it all away right then and there. He pressed his nose into the soft lavender scent of Rebecca’s hair and caressed her waist possessively, in awe of the new life dwelling within her. Like all their other stolen moments, Jean tucked the memory of holding her so close away for safe keeping. Bedding a queen was hardly a luxury that a knight could regularly afford.

…

Princess Chloe was christened on a blustery Autumn morning just as the leaves began to fall from their trees. Naturally, King Alexander and Queen Rebecca were wary, refusing all gifts from the alchemists in attendance, including the famed Brothers Elric, for fear of history repeating itself. The ceremony was brief but beautiful, drawing attendees from across the four kingdoms. Banners in the great hall proudly displayed the Southern Kingdom’s union with the rediscovered Catalina territory, and as far as anyone besides the queen and her favorite knight knew, there was no better symbol of that unity that the princess.

Sir Jean stood sentry beside the Queen, watching over Rebecca as their newborn infant suckled at her mother’s breast. It wasn’t much, Havoc knew, but it would have to be enough. For as long as his body drew breath, he would never leave Rebecca, bound by ties of duty and fate. He stood silently by his beloved’s side as she ruled with King Alexander.

The Southern Kingdom prospered, as the sage Hohenheim had foretold.

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#you ask i answer #fanfiction trope mash up #fullmetal alchemist #fma #jean havoc #rebecca catalina #havolina #alex louis armstrong #ruikosakuragi #a passing housewife fanfiction #flourchildwrites

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kane-corrigan · 8 years ago

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-- toiletEmperor [TE] began prattling with ectoTerrestrial [ET] at 15:23 -- TE: Sup, fucker. ET: Hey dude, sorry I didn’t reply sooner TE: Yeah, you totally kept me hanging. TE: What kept you? Kissing one of your posters of Neil again? ET: Pffft. No TE: I bet you were rubbing your butt all over it, too. ET: stfu ET: What I do behind closed doors is none of your business, mister TE: Just admit it and I'll leave you alone. ET: Okay so I gave it a little smooch, big whoop ET: It’s for good luck TE: Oh yeah, I bet you want to get lucky with him, if you know what I mean. TE: If you catch my drift. TE: If you get my meaning. TE: I’m implying you want some of the C-Man. ET: *scoff* The thought never crossed my mind TE: Okay, then what are you planning on doing with all that extra “luck”? ET: Your mother TE: >:O TE: All right, I set myself up on that one. TE: To subvert the fact that I was totally owned, I’m going to change the subject. TE: Whatcha get for ya birthday? TE: Any special deliveries, maybe? Hmmmmm? ET: If you discount the possible delivery of my Sburb copy, then jack shit. My mom’s probably going to make me do like, 20 hail-Mary’s if I want to get my hands on any of my presents ET: All I want is to eat cake and play games with my friends today, man. What right does she have to stand in the way of a gay time TE: She won’t let you open them? Damn. ET: I DID find an open box of stale fruit gushers, however. Maybe today won’t be such a bad day after all ET: Hey maybe if I’m lucky, Neil will release another mashup album later ET: Or maybe if I’m REALLY lucky, he’ll finally release the new LD album! Oh my god oh my god omg, “’Dark Horse’ trotting your way this spring 2015” he said, remember? ET: The hard driving guitars and soulful lyrics will rock us to our very core TE: Easy there, tiger, don’t cream your pants just yet. TE: This could be yet another one of his cheeky antics. Or do I dare say, “horseplay?” ET: You really think he would do that? Just go on the Internet and tell lies? TE: Yes. That’s like his entire bit. ET: He isn’t some one-dimensional caricature cooked up by a teenaged fan-fic writer ET: He is NEIL CICIEREGA, the most handsomest, smartest, talented, most beautiful man to ever bless the earth with his music, face, and Shitpoints™ system ET: Speaking of which, dude I need your help ET: Send me all your shitpoints TE: What? No. ET: Plllssss TE: Why do you want my stupid poopoints? ET: I don’t have enough sP’s to beat my mom in a showdown. I will get my ass handed to me if I don’t get these motherfucking points. Please, I only need like, 300 more TE: Ahahaha, fuck, hahahahahahaha. ET: PLEASE dude, this is SERIOUS, my ass cheeks are on the LINE here TE: I don’t have that many! I haven’t bothered collecting them at all for the past few months, actually. There’s no point in it. TE: Literally, there's no points in it, because they're not real or worth anything. ET: Get with the times, man, sP’s are the cryptocurrency of the future TE: They’re a joke that went way out of control. People took it too far. Don’t you remember how Neil got into trouble with the FBI? ET: Pfft, yeah right. Those people were in those coal mines voluntarily TE: Ehhh… ET: Look, are you going to give them to me or what TE: Yeah, fine. It's not like they'll be relevant or anything ever again. TE: Here are 90 shitpoints on their way down the toilet. -- toiletEmperor [TE] sent ectoTerrestrial [ET] “90 sP’s" -- ET: Sweet, thanks ET: I guess TE: Do you really need to confront your mom like this in order to get your gifts? TE: It’s a really ass-backwards way of going about it. TE: Just try swiping them from under her nose. Her halitosis should hide your scent. ET: Dude, that’s my mom you’re talking about ET: Her nose is strong enough to cut through any powerful stench TE: Then wear a disguise. TE: Leo who? Never met the guy. TE: There’s no way she’ll be able to recognize her own son. It’s foolproof, trust me. ET: Well I do have a beagle puss, but I think wearing that while trying to steal behind my mom’s back will just make her even angrier TE: I was just kidding about the disguise. ET: I’ll wear it anyway. Might even get some bonus sP’s out of it ET: Alright, I’m gonna go do that now ET: brb. If I don’t reply in 15 minutes, call the police TE: Haha, got it. Good luck, man. ET: I’m serious. 20 minutes, tops TE: Oh.

“He isn’t some one-dimensional caricature cooked up by a teenaged fan-fic writer”

#househeld

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