#mustang appreciation post I suppose | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mldrgrl · 4 years ago

Text

Broken Things 1/24

by: mldrgrl Rating: varies by chapter, rated R overall Summary: The year is 1886, William Mulder owns a horse ranch in northern Texas. The widow of a neighboring landowner has something he wants. Notes: Please be aware that this fic will contain ‘off-camera’ references to violence and abuse of various kinds. I will not be tagging individual TWs on the chapters.

Prologue

Many years from now, when he tells the tales of his younger days, he will claim that this is the day that changed his life forever. If that horse hadn’t thrown a shoe, well then. His wife will roll her eyes at this, tell him that any number of events prior to that day had already changed his life forever. The decision to leave Massachusetts for the open prairie, for example, had changed his life forever. The fact that his father had sent him to live with his aunt in the countryside instead of keeping him in the city had changed his life forever. The pony he received for his birthday when he was a child had clearly changed his life forever.

All of that will hindsight one day. Right now, it’s just an ordinary Thursday, the 9th of September, 1886. The weather is mild, almost cool compared to the heat wave that had hit in the latter half of August. And William Mulder’s horse has thrown a shoe.

Chapter 1

Normally, Mulder (only his family ever called him William) sends his ranch hand, Melvin, to take care of small errands and menial tasks, but he hasn’t been to town in almost a month and he could use a change of pace. He hitches one of his more reliable horses to his wagon and takes one of the ones in training as well, one he’s just broken in, to see how he handles on the hour-long ride. Their first stop is Gray’s Blacksmith.

After tying the horses to the post, Mulder gives them both a good scratching about the neck for a job well done and receives a snort and whinny of appreciation. “Well done, boys,” he says. “Carrots and apples at home for both of you if you keep up the good work.”

The familiar sound of clanking and hammering and the crackle of fire greets Mulder as he steps into the open door of the blacksmith’s. He tips his hat to the striker, who nods a greeting. The blacksmith turns and nods as well.

“Mr. Gray,” Mulder says.

“Mr. Mulder,” the blacksmith answers, passing his tongs to his assistant and then removing his gloves to shake hands. “What can I do for ya?”

“Faithful Jenny’s thrown a shoe. Melvin’s fixing her up, but I figured it was a good time to pick up a crate of nails and shoes.”

“Come on back and take a look then. How’s business?”

“Doing well. We’re training up a half dozen draft horses for the postal service right now.”

“Is the rumor you pulled in a mustang a few weeks ago true?”

“Afraid so.”

“You ain’t got a broken neck far as I can tell, so you must be faring alright with him then.”

“You can see him for yourself when I take this cart out to the wagon.”

“You brung him with ya?”

“I did.”

“I’ll be.”

Mulder feels a surge of pride when the blacksmith comes out to admire the horse. He slides the crate of shoes and nails into the back of the wagon and then shows off his friendship with the four-legged beast by rubbing his belly. The horse scratches the ground with his front hoof and shakes his head.

“You sure got a way, Mr. Mulder,” Mr. Gray says. “If you got any stock you’re looking to sell I heard there’s a new homesteader a ways south that was interested.”

“I’m on my way to the mercantile. I’ll be sure to ask John.”

The two men shake hands once again before Mulder gets back in his wagon. He smiles to himself when the blacksmith watches him leave. He’s made a name for himself in the short while he’s been here breaking and training up horses. Folks in the area have said time and again that there isn’t a horse he can’t tame, that it’s almost downright spooky the way he seems to be able to talk to them.

There’s a man being waited on in the mercantile that Mulder doesn’t recognize, probably someone just passing through. He waits for John Byers to finish with the customer, browsing the Montgomery Ward & Co. catalog at the end of the counter.

“Mulder,” John says after ringing the man up at the till. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, John.” He pulls a shopping list from his pocket and unfolds it. “I’m sure you’re better at translating Melvin’s chicken scratches than me at this point.”

“I believe I can manage.” John chuckles and takes the shopping list. He pulls a crate down and begins to collect items off the shelves and William goes back to the catalogue, thumbing past the illustrations of ladies’ garments to find menswear.

“If I put in an order for denim trousers for me and the boys you think they’ll be in by winter?”

“I’d say it’s likely.”

“Mr. Gray mentioned there were some new homesteaders interested in horses.”

“He must mean Mr. Campbell. It’s oxen he’s after, I believe.”

“If you hear otherwise, send him my way.”

“I’ll do that. I suppose you heard about your neighbor?”

“What neighbor is that?”

“Jack Willis.”

“Haven’t heard a thing. What about him?”

“He spent all of Saturday night at the saloon in a poker game and was found dead in a ditch just outside of town on Sunday morning.”

“Robbed?”

“I should actually say he spent all Saturday night losing in a poker game and downing whiskey like water. I heard he stumbled his way into that ditch of his own accord and met an untimely demise.”

“I only met him the once, but that doesn’t surprise me much. Far be it for me to speak ill of the dead, but the man had a disagreeable disposition. He seemed like the type to get himself into trouble.”

“Well, the bank is soon to be after his widow. I’ve heard he’s in arrears. I’m actually surprised the Sheriff didn’t stop on at your place on his way out there to tell her about her husband’s death.”

“Didn’t know he had a widow. And you know Sheriff Doggett, he’s all business.”

“My Susannah saw them together, he and his wife, the day they passed through looking for land, and you know Susannah, she was beside herself at the notion of another woman come to town, but then no one’s seen hide nor hair of her since.”

“I still regret having been back east when Old Man Goodwin passed. I’ve had my eye on that land for quite some time.”

“Maybe she’ll sell it to you.”

Mulder rubs at his chin in thought. “You say the bank is about to repossess?”

“That’s the rumor. I don’t think Mr. Skinner would relish evicting a new widow, but there probably isn’t much he can do if the mortgage is late.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to take a ride out to pay my respects and assess the situation. Thank you, John.”

Byers nods and gestures to the items laid out on the counter. “I’ll have John Jr. load the cart for you. Would you like this on your account?”

“I’ll square up everything now, but go ahead and order those trousers.”

The hour ride back home gives Mulder time to think. He’s in a position to offer the Willis widow a handsome sum for his neighboring acres. The one and only time he’d met Jack Willis he was immediately soured on trying to form any kind of friendship with him. The man had been downright surly and abrasive and he sure hopes the widow is more neighborly.

Melvin takes over the wagon when Mulder arrives home and shows him the new shoe on Faithful Jenny. The older man is at least a foot closer to the ground than Mulder and proudly displays a life-long love of hearty biscuits around his middle, but there’s no better right-hand man that Mulder could ask for. He’s foreman and farrier, counselor and cook. There isn’t anything Mulder doesn’t trust him with. As they unload the wagon together, he tells him about what he heard from John Byers.

“Well, there’s no harm in asking,” Melvin offers as advice. “If’n the bank really is after her, she might be grateful for the offer. You should probably get out there as soon as possible in case anyone else might be sniffin’ around for them acres.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“You know if’n I’d heard about Bob Goodwin any sooner I’d have snatched up them acres for you before I could even send a wire.”

“I know, it’s not your fault. Do me a favor, old man, tack up Blondie while I try to make myself presentable.”

“That could take hours. Days even.”

“Decades, in your case. If it’s even possible.”

The two men laugh over their gentle ribbing of each other and Mulder claps Melvin on the shoulder. He parts from his friend to go wash his face, comb his hair, and put on a fresh shirt. His horse is saddled and ready to go when he comes back out.

“Good luck,” Melvin tells him.

A narrow, slow-moving creek divides Mulder’s property from the Willis widow’s land. It’s one he’s crossed many times when Old Man Goodwin was his neighbor. He knows where the shallowest spot is to lead the horse and where the shrubs are too thick and have to be avoided. He tries not to daydream about what he’ll do with an expansion, but he passes the spot he’d like to clear out for a better corral and where he’d like to add another stable and it’s hard not to hope.

The old sod house that Old Man Goodwin had slapped together is still standing, though it looks to have seen better days. The roof needs patching and the walls are crumbling in spots. He dismounts Blondie when he’s still a few yards away and leads the horse over to the post he knows is at the side of the house. The nearby trough which is usually full of water is empty. The chickens that were usually clucking and underfoot are nowhere to be seen.

Mulder knocks lightly on the clapboard door and moments later a woman with the reddest hair and the bluest eyes he’s ever seen answers.

↭

Katherine is expecting the knock when it comes, though it’s sooner than she thought it would be. In the days since her husband’s death, she’s racked her brain for a solution to her current predicament, but has come up empty handed. She doesn’t delay in answering the door. She may be on the verge of being destitute and homeless, but she’ll face it with dignity.

“Uh, Mrs. Willis, I presume?” the man asks. He stammers a bit but he has an easy, congenial smile that catches her a little off guard. She’d been expecting the Sheriff she’d met on Sunday, but perhaps the bank manager in this town takes care of evictions.

“Mr. Skinner, I presume?” she finally replies.

The man chuckles and removes his hat. “Ah, no Ma’am,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “I’m afraid I have a bit more hair than our dear Mr. bank manager.”

“Oh.” She should have known. The bank managers she’s had dealings with in the past were stuffy and pinched. This man is far too rugged and handsome to be a bank manager.

“William Mulder.” He holds out his hand to her and when she gives him hers, he bows slightly and brings it to his mouth, brushing his lips lightly across her knuckles. Embarrassed, she pulls her hand back and closes it into a fist to hide her dirty and calloused palms from him.

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asks.

“I know we haven’t met before, but I happen to be your neighbor just to the south. I heard about your husband and I’ve come to pay my respects.”

“I see. Would you...care to come in, then?”

“Thank you.”

He has to bend to step through the low-frame of the door. She has no candles, but there’s enough light from the open door and the unpatched holes in the walls that it’s unnecessary. She watches him look the place over and she can tell he’s not impressed by the shabbiness of it all.

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything to offer you,” she says.

He smiles politely. “That’s alright, Ma’am. I came to be neighborly, but there is also a matter I wanted to discuss regarding this land.”

“Oh?” Fear grips her suddenly. He may not be the bank man, and he may not be the sheriff, but he could be another kind of lawman. Even if he was telling the truth that he was her neighbor, he could still be there to turn her out, or worse yet, remove her to debtor’s prison. Unconsciously, she begins to tremble.

“Mrs. Willis?” he asks. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she answers, pulling the tattered shawl draped over her shoulders a little tighter across her chest. “A chill is all.”

He looks around again. “You’ve no chair to sit on?”

“No.”

“Would you like to come back outside? Perhaps it will be warmer. You could sit on my horse.”

The absurdity of the offer makes her laugh and eases her anxiety somewhat. He bites his lower lip almost shyly and tips his chin down as he turns the hat over in his hands again. She stares at his mouth, thinking about how the slight overbite he has seems to suit him well. She notes other things too, in the silence. Like how his beard is well-trimmed and his nails are clean. He presents himself as a cowboy, but she knows a city man when she sees one.

“Um, Mrs. Willis, I…”

She flinches at the name. “Katherine,” she says.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’d prefer you call me Katherine.”

He cocks his head a little to the side and smiles. “Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom,” he murmurs.

She can’t help but lift her right eyebrow. It used to irritate her husband immensely when she pulled faces, as he called it. “Rather Kate the Curst,” she replies.

His eyes widen and seem to brighten. “You know Shakespeare?”

“You look surprised.”

“No, no, it’s just...I haven’t had much opportunity to discuss the Bard out here. Apologies for the Taming of the Shrew reference, but whenever I come across a Katherine, I can’t help but make the association. Especially when it’s not altogether untrue.”

She feels the heat rise to her cheeks with the compliment that she knows is entirely unwarranted. She was never very pretty. Her mother used to complain about how wild and curly her hair was when she was a child, not to mention the dreadful freckles across her nose and cheeks. It may have been quite some time since she’s been in the presence of a looking glass, but she doesn’t need one to know that her appearance is lacking.

“I suppose I could have just as easily been a Viola or an Ophelia,” she says, avoiding his flattery.

“Hopefully not a Lady MacBeth.”

“No.” The conversation stalls momentarily, but then she wets her lips and tightens her shawl again. “You said there was something you came to speak with me about?”

“I was away on some business when Old Man...ah, that is, when Mr. Goodwin, the previous owner of your land, passed on. I’d been eyeing this parcel for some time and had been planning to offer Mr. Goodwin a sum to sell it to me. I’d like to make you that same offer.”

“Ah.” She closes her eyes and chuckles mirthlessly for a brief moment. “I’m afraid I can’t take that offer.”

“Have you sold to someone else?”

“No, but I’m not in a position to sell. My husband leased this land and I have every reason to doubt he ever made good on the rent. He drank most of the money and gambled what was left of that.”

“I see.”

“I’m just biding my time now until the bank comes to collect and turn me out.”

“Do you have people back...wherever it is that you're from?”

“Virginia.”

“It’s not but a few days ride to Fort Worth, I could send a wire to someone for you.”

“You would do that?”

“Of course.”

“No.” She shakes her head slowly and sighs. “There’s no one back home, but thank you.”

He shifts his feet and tries to speak, but he says nothing. He looks dumbfounded in a way that almost makes her feel sorry for him.

“Was that all?” she asks.

“Ma’am,” he stammers. “Mrs. Willis...Katherine...I can’t...I can’t…”

She doesn’t know what compels her to do it, but she reaches out and puts her hand over his where it grips the brim of his hat. He falls silent and stops his fidgeting. She squeezes his hand lightly and lets her fingers rest against his wrist for a few moments before she takes it away.

“Since you seem familiar with the bank man,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll get your wish soon enough.”

“But…”

“Good day to you, Mr. Mulder. Thank you for coming.”

#i wrote this #broken things #chapter 1 #AU #MSR

108 notes · View notes

mudhornchronicles · 4 years ago

Text

dreamboat | greaser!frankie morales | part two

diner cred to @thatretrobitch

pairing: francisco “catfish” morales x reader; 1950’s greaser!frankie x reader

warnings: swearing, drinking, smoking, ya know… 1950s stuff + death and war, and being rude af

a/n: part two of dreamboat

masterlist

dreamboat: part one | part two

“If I didn’t know any better, Francisco, I’d say you were teacher in a past life.” You look up at him and smirk. He looks over to you and gives you a crooked smile. He adjusts his jacket and runs his left hand through his hair.

Frankie taught you a lot more history than the teacher. Frankie had a lot more patience and explained each topic that was covered in much better detail and simply enough to understand. Like when Hattie Wyatt Caraway of Arkansas became the first woman elected to the U.S. Senate in 1932 to fill the vacancy caused by the death of her husband. Frankie compared it to the demonstration of the first long distance telephone service between New York and San Francisco in 1913 – surprising but needed.

You didn’t have Frankie for a third period, just first and fourth, but he made sure to meet you out each of your classes and walked you over to your next class. He had conversed with the boys about asking you to Rosie’s Diner on Friday night. Everyone knows when a guy takes a little darlin’ down to Rosie’s, she’s unavailable. Frankie knows you probably don’t know what going to the diner with him means but he assumes if you did, you wouldn’t go. So he decides that the less you knew the better – well at least that’s what Tom decided.

“Ya know, doll. I like the way you say my name, but how ‘bout ya just call me Frankie, huh? I don’t use the entire thing anymore.”

You cock your head to the side and your smiles turns into a slight frown. “Do you not like the way Francisco sounds?”

He tucks his hands into his jean pockets, shrugs, and looks down at his dirty Chuck Taylors. “Thanks, I do like it, but it don’t… it don’t sound cool, you know? I got a reputation to keep up – all the guys do.”

Frankie stopped using the name Francisco at the start of freshman year. Pope stopped using Santiago around the same time. Their teachers would call them Francis and Saint because they found it difficult to pronounce the boys’ names correctly. Frankie was too shy to say anything and Pope was still unsure about his accented English, so when Will laughed and told the teacher, “Ain’t that a bite? You got a degree, but can’t pronounce an ABC name,” the boys knew Will was going to be a great friend. The boys thought that would be the end of it, but then Benny decided to join his brother and say, “How ‘bout, since ya feel so high and mighty, you call ‘em Frankie and Pope? We got Francisco like that city on the west coast, so call ‘em Frankie. Then we got Santiago. You wanna call ‘em Saint, then give ‘em the highest honor.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better,” you stopped walking and placed a hand on his arm. “I like your name. I think it suits you very well.”

He smiles and nods. He doesn’t know if he’s nodding because he’s convincing himself he likes it too or if he’s nodding because he’s glad you like it too. He liked your company because you weren’t too invasive, but he could also tell that you wanted to get to know him. He knew he wasn’t the most open to people, he has his father to thank for that.

As young 19-year-old – about a year older than Frankie – his father was drafted and fought in World War 1 in 1918 as a US Army soldier and was then sent off to France a few weeks in to fight with the AEF, the American Expeditionary Forces. Because of this, Frankie’s father wasn’t the most expressive when in public but was easily the most caring when it came to his family. When Frankie was growing up, his father had spoiled his baby boy and made sure he worked hard as a welder so that Frankie wouldn’t want for anything. Frankie remembers his father coming home from work late at night, oil and bits of metal stuck to him, and always turning his frown into a smile when he laid eyes upon his son.

His father’s closure to the world only grew when he saw his family in danger. Frankie figured that by growing up within a military family, it would lead to him serving in the military as his father did before him. When Frankie was coming to the age of enlistment, he told his family about him wanting to go off to the military, but his father was very much against it. All his father wanted for his son was for Frankie to live his life the way he wanted to, so Frankie didn’t enlist. One day when Frankie was at school, recruiters came to the Morales home and were knocking the door down. Frankie’s father had informed them that his son would not be serving. He was told that because Frankie was able, male, and was soon to be of age, he had to enlist whether he was needed or not. His father complied; except he wrote his own name down instead of his son’s.

His father never regretted going to war. He still had nightmares, which Frankie knew all too well. He had met Frankie’s mother when he came back home in 1921 and after years of trying, he was blessed with a son in 1935. All was good in the world until the year 1950 – Frankie was 15 years old. In August of 1950, a letter came in the post reading the following:

SIR: FRANCISCO MORALES SR.

You are hereby notified that you, on the 21 day of August of 1950, have been legally drafted in the service to the Armed Forces of the United States of America. You are to report to the Armed Forces station below and will be transported to Daejeon, Korea.

Frankie’s father never came back.

His body was never recovered – just his ID tags. Frankie’s mother was told that the last transmission received with the whereabouts of Francisco Morales Sr. were near the Nakdong River in South Korea. Frankie always carried his father’s ID tags around his neck no matter where he went. Those tags always reassured him of himself knowing that he was doing what his father wanted him to do.

Frankie walked you down the steps of school building and stopped at the sidewalk. “Ya know, if ya need a ride, I can take ya home – aint no trouble.”

You smile and shake your head. “I appreciate that. I told my mother I’d take the bus back home.” You knew your mother would have a fit if she saw you get dropped off by a boy, but she may still be at work. You looked back at Frankie and saw that he had a slight frown on his face as he played with a necklace hidden in his white t-shirt. You weren’t sure the reason behind it, but he didn’t want to pry. “Actually, I’ll take a ride.”

His eyes lit up and nodded. “Great but I do gotta warn ya, doll. I gotta take Ironhead and Benny back to their place. Pope usually goes back to mines.” A ride home in a car full of teenage boys – what can go wrong?

The pair of you walk down to the school’s parking lot and there you see students laughing in their cars – 4 to 5 in a car – all while having a smoke and others are drinking from beer cans. You have no doubt that it’s beer cans when one gets tossed towards you with left over beer splattering over your white skirt. Frankie takes notice of the yellow stains and the grimace growing on your face. He looks over at the teenagers in a beat-up Chevy.

“Aye watch where ya tossin’ shit, birdbrain.” The teens look over at Frankie and walk over to him. You place a hand on his arm and look up at him.

“Frankie, c’mon. Let’s just go to your car, huh?” you plead. His arm tightens and as the teens arrive in front of him, Frankie protectively put you behind him and adjusts his jacket – a tick of his you’ve taken note of. The three boys who walked over to Frankie look over at you and smirk.

“Well shit Frankie, pal.” One of them takes a smoke and blows the out towards his side. “You already smashin’ up this little new betty? Don’t you work fast… first Michelle, then Tiffany, now this one?”

Frankie’s jaw tightens and his hold on your arm shifts. “How ‘bout you stuff it, Jack? You know you ain’t even supposed to be here. This ain’t your turf.”

Jack removes his hat, a cowboy hat he’s become fond of, and fixes his hair. He puts it back on and laughs. “You’re right, but I clearly don’t care. Oberyn ain’t out the can ‘till Friday, so I call the shots. My boys wanna be here and screw all these chick-a-dees, then they will. I know you ain’t gon’ do nothin’.”

“He will,” you hear a click and quickly turn your head to see Pope and the boys, Benny holding up a pocketknife. “But he ain’t doin’ it alone either.” The Bandits circle the three men and puff up their chests.

“Alright,” Jack holds his hands up. “We’re gone but trust me when I say that Oberyn ain’t gon’ be too happy to hear this.” With that he snaps his head over to his boys directing them back to their car. They turn to leave and Jack walks away backwards. When he’s satisfied with the distance between himself and The Bandits, he turns on his heel and runs to his car. He jumps in the driver’s seat, gives his girl a smooch, and revs the engine – with that he’s gone.

Pope looks at you and gives your shoulder a quick squeeze. “You good? Hope those bumrats ain’t spook ya too bad.” You shake your head and smile shyly. You look down at your ruined skirt and shrug.

“Just a ruined skirt but that’s okay. I wasn’t fond of it.” Will laughs at your comment fluffs yours skirt from the bottom, earning a nudge from Frankie.

“Let’s get her home, huh? I gotta drop off everyone else,” Frankie says. Tom tells Frankie that he’s got detention and to go on without him. Tom goes back towards the building while everyone piles up in Frankie’s Cherry Red 1945 Mustang GT – his father’s gift to him for his 15th birthday, also his last gift.

Per usual, Benny and Will leans the driver’s seat forwards and get in to sit in the back while Pope goes to sit in his usual spot as shotgun. Frankie tuts at Pope and points to the back. Pope scoffs but shoots Frankie a wink. He gets in and sits in between the brothers, being the smallest of the three, and Frankie runs over to open the door for you to sit up front. He grabs your books and hands them to Pope. As you situate yourself and buckle your seatbelt, Frankie gets in and turns on his baby. He revvs the engine and backs up out the school’s parking garage, but not before revving his engine one more time for the freshmen per Benny’s request.

On the drive to the brother’s house, Benny grabs your notebook and looks through your notes of the day. He looks through the math notes you took during 4th period and immediately closes it. “You sure are smart if you’re taking this angle stuff. I’m guessing it’s college prep?”

You look over your shoulder and nod. “I’m currently taking college preparatory trigonometry. They unfortunately didn’t have any other advanced placement for me here.”

The boys let out a harmony of “ohs” and Will shakes Frankie’s shoulder. “Frankie! She’s smart like you, buddy!”

Pope smirks and joins in on the teasing. “Lo vez, hermano! Being smart doesn’t make you un-cool. Being you does! No te hagas ver como el tonto porque no lo eres.”

You see, brother… don’t make yourself seem dumb because you aren’t.

You look at Pope and smile. “I agree with you, Santiago. Frankie is very intelligent so he shouldn’tdumb himself down because he thinks that’s what people think of him.” Pope stops and looks at you. “You know some Spanish, angel face?” You eagerly nod. “I’m very familiar with the language. They had us choose electives at my old school. I took Spanish, Italian, and French. I had a lot of a free time.”

Pope looks at you in shock but happily hollers. “Well sugar you sound pretty good speakin’ ‘em”

You couldn’t explain it, but you felt giddy. You felt happy to be around the boys and you knew you wanted to continue to be around them.

With Frankie getting out of the car and moving his seat forward, Will and Benny get dropped off first, but not without teasing him about “asking the chick.” Frankie flips them off and Pope lets out a belly laugh. Frankie apologetically looks at you and mouths sorry. You blush and mouth that’s okay.

Once leaving the brothers, Pope tells Frankie to turn up the radio. Frankie looks at Pope through the rearview mirror and narrows his eyes. “Switch to 12,” Pope says with a wink. Frankie rolls his eyes and turns the knob so the needle hits channel 12. Once Frankie hears the recognizable melody from “Takes Two to Tango” by Pearl Bailey. Frankie goes to switch the channel, but you stop his hand. He glances over to you and he sees you mouthing the words. He looks back at Pope who wiggles his eyebrows and sings out loud and to Frankie’s surprise, you join Pope singing at the top of your lungs. He laughs at your attempts at dancing in your seat and looks back at Pope who was waving his hands in the air.

Frankie thought that you’d be this proper, shy little thing but here you were having singing and laughing with his best friend. You gave him the slightest nudge and smiled in his direction. “C’mon Frankie. Don’t be a sour puss. I know you know this song!” You were right. He did know this song. He and Pope sang it so much because Pope thought he could woo some girl – he didn’t really know what the lyrics meant so you can guess what happened. If you guessed he slept with her… you’d be correct.

You poked Frankie in the ribs light enough to not affect his driving and giggled as he sang out with Pope. You liked seeing this Frankie – not that big tough guy you saw at the parking lot. He seemed like he had a big heart but was scared to show it and you were determined, but you were ripped away from your internal planning when Frankie politely asked for your address.

“It’s a shame you ain’t hangin’ longer sweetheart,” Pope began. “I think you’d like being around us two mucks. You would definitely like Frankie’s mom’s cooking. She makes the best food in town.” You smiled as the two best friends bickered about whose mom had the best food.

“I would have loved to, but I have to be home and do chores before my mother gets home.”

Frankie looks over to you and gives you a reassuring smile. “It’s alright. Maybe next time, cool?” You smile at the invitation and nod. Frankie continues to drive as you and Pope make a conversation about the possibility of you tutoring him in math. With them being high school seniors, they are not failing one class.

You feel on top of the world, laughing and talking with your new friends, until you spot the yellow Pontiac in the driveway and your mother coming out of it. Your face drops and the boys immediately take notice.

“What’s wrong?” Frankie asks. You straighten out your top and ask Pope for your books as you ready yourself to run out of the car. You look at Frankie and offer a weak smile.

“My mother won’t be happy with me is all.” You’d ask Frankie to drop you off a couple of houses before your own, but you know your mother has already seen you. As Frankie pulls up to your house, the boys’ jaws drop. You wouldn’t say your house was big, but to the boys, it was huge. Your two-story home consisted of 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. The exterior of the home was beige with dark brown trimming and the river rock pathway leading up to your home was lined with grass so green you’d think it was plastic.

Your mother, dressed to the nines in a pale pink dress and white belt, looks at the hot rod parked in front of her home and places her hands on her hips as she sees Frankie run out and open your door. Your mother would normally love seeing her daughter be treated by a gentleman, but she isn’t very happy to see that it’s Frankie. She has always dreamed of her daughter being courted by a young man in polished Oxford shoes and ironed pleated pants not a worn out leather jacket and dirty chucks.

You thank Frankie for the ride and look over at your upset mother. The boys say hello to her as she gives them the ungenuine smile of hers you have seen many times. You wave goodbye to both boys and begin to walk up to your mother. You hear whispers behind you and then you hear your mother say, “Is there something else you’d like to say, boy?”

You turn and you see Pope shove Frankie towards you. His face turns red as he sees your mother staring him down and he knows that this may not be the best time to ask you.

“On with it, young man. My daughter and I have work to do.”

Frankie once again runs his hand through his hair and clears his throat. “I- I, uh, I was wonderin’ if ya wanted to hang with us at Rosie’s on Friday. The shakes are pretty good so we could ma-“

“What’s your name, young man?” You look at your mother. You narrow your eyes at her for interrupting Frankie.

“It-It’s Frankie,” he stutters, “my name’s Frankie, ma’am.”

Your mother gives her less than friendly smile again. “Well, Frankie, you’ll understand where I’m coming from when I tell you this – you are not the kind of person I want my daughter befriending. You just don’t quite… how can I put this nicely? You don’t fit a mother’s standards.”

“Mother!”

“Quiet.” she tells you. “You will not be around these boys again, do you understand? Your father works too hard for you to just ruin your life like this. You asked to be taken out of the pristine private school we paid for you to go to and we allowed you to enroll in public school. Why are you bringing home some… some hoodlum! How can you do this to us?”

You wished this had surprised you, but it wasn’t the first time your mother disrespected your choice of friends. You huffed and you felt tears coming to your eyes as you saw Frankie’s defeated look in his eyes and Pope fighting the urge to get out of the car.

You mother calls your name, and you turn to look at her. She walks to you, heels clicking the pavement, and cups your jaw. “You will not associate yourself with these boys, do we understand each other?” You see Frankie nod to you and walk back to his car. You look back at your mother and nod. “Yes, Mother. I understand.” Your mother smiles at you and gives your cheek a pat. “Good girl. Now… get inside and put that skirt in the hamper. Your allowance is going towards a new skirt.”

She leads you into the house and you look back and see Frankie’s car is still there. You stop in your tracks and look at your mother. “Mother, may I please run back and grab a paper I left?”

“Is it school related?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very well. Go grab it and say goodbye and come back in. We have to get dinner going.” You nod and run back to the car and your mother walks into the house.

Pope rolls down the passenger side window and both boys look at you. You smile at Pope and look at Frankie.

“Does Rosie’s Diner have sundaes?” Pope smirks and turns to Frankie while Frankie nods with a confused face. “Well,” you start, “If Friday’s invitation is still open, pick me up by the green house down the street at 6pm. She’ll be going to my grandmother’s house up north.”

“Sounds like a plan, doll.”

The light breeze surprises you as it picks up the more you walk down the street. You walk past two houses and you see the red backlights of the cherry red mustang you seemed to miss.

Your mother, thankfully, left to your grandmother’s home about two hours ago, much earlier than expected. She called not very long ago to make sure you were home and doing homework. You told her that you were planning to retire early as your homework began to give you a headache. She insisted you eat dinner and sleep as she didn’t want to see eyebags under your eyes when she got back tomorrow. She bid you goodnight and said she’d be home by tomorrow’s lunchtime. Once you hung the phone on the hook, you ran to your room and began to ready yourself for the night.

You grew giddy as 6 o’clock crept closer and closer. You had applied your blush and mascara so carefully you’d have thought you were dusting the finest of china. You did not want to wear too much makeup; you didn’t want to seem as though you were trying too hard. You picked out the pins out of the curls on your head you’d put up right when your mother left and watched as the soft and tight curls fell and framed your face. You grabbed your wide tooth comb and brushed the curls out, parting your side at a side so there was more hair and volume on one side. You sprayed a tight hold hairspray all over so you could make sure your hair stood – Frankie wouldn’t want to see frazzled hair, no man would, you thought.

As you went through your closet, you decided that a dress was the best choice as it was simple enough to either be dressed up or dressed down. You went with a white collared black dress with thin white windowpane patterned lines all over. You wore your black flats and added a black shiny belt running across the waist. You get closer to Frankie’s car and you see him get out of his car – you figured he had seen you coming.

“How ya doin’ there, doll?”

“Hello, Frankie.” You wave and get closer to him. Once you’re in front of him you fix his jacket lapel and look up at him. “Aren’t you sight for sworn eyes.”

His eyes widen then starts laughing loudly and your face goes red. He nearly falls in laughter as his hands catch himself on his knees. “W-What’d ya just say?”

“I said aren’t you a sight for sworn eyes,” you frown. “Is that not appropriate?”

He catches his breath and puts a hand on his belly. He reaches over and tucks your hair behind your ear with the other hand. “The saying is a sight for sore eyes, doll; not sworn eyes.”

You feel as if your face is about to burst as you start laughing at yourself. You just cannot believe you’ve messed up your first attempt at flirting with Frankie. “I was really sure it was sworn.”

He smiles brightly and shakes his head. “Hey… can’t say ya ain’t tried right?” You giggle and nod. He look you up and down and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Te vez hermosa.” You look beautiful.

Have you ever had that feeling when there’s a puppy trying to get comfortable, but it can’t so it walks over to you and lays with you – falling into a deep and peaceful sleep? You know how it makes your heart feel as if it’s grown twice in size because the puppy chose you and trusted you to protect it while it slept? That’s how you felt when those words came out of Frankie’s mouth.

“Muchas gracias, Francisco.” Thank you very much, Francisco.

He playfully rolls his eyes at you and lets out a laugh. He points to the car and says, “get in the damn car.” He runs over to your door and lets you in, as per usual, and off you two went to Rosie’s Diner.

Frankie leads you into a bright neon-lit diner not very far from your home, about 25 minutes from your place. The diner stands out from the black concrete parking lot and pine trees decorating its background. He opens the light brown doors and places a hand on your lower back as you walk in – not too low or too high.

“Howdy’ho kiddos.” You’re greeted by a woman in her late 40’s or early 50s – the grey hair and sweet smile give it away. “Hey there, Frankie. Bandits meetin’ ya here?”

Frankie smiles at the woman, gives her a hug, and a quick kiss on the cheek; a kiss she smiles at and hums in content. “Hey Ro. Boys are comin’ in a while. You know they ain’t missin’ your special tonight.”

“There’s a special night every night for my favorite bandits, Frankie. Who’s this, huh? You finally bringin’ a girl for me to meet?” Frankie shakes his head from side to side smiling. He turns to you and introduces you to Rosie, the diner’s owner and one of his favorite people. “She’s new in town and I wanted to show her the best diner in the world.”

Rosie slaps Frankie’s arm and laughs. “Stop talkin’ sweet ‘fore your teeth rot, boy. You’re too pretty to be all gums now. I knew my boys were comin; your usual booth’s open, but take the table next to it, yeah. Ya need the extra seat ‘less you sittin’ the girl on ya lap.” Frankie begins to stutter a protest as you stifle a laugh.

“It’s very nice to meet you Miss Rosie. I’m in awe of your diner and excited to try your food.”

“Well it’s very nice to meet the girl who Frankie finally decided to bring to the diner. It’s a very special moment in his life ya know?” You cock your head to the side and take a quick glance at Frankie.

“Why’s that, Miss Rosie?”

As Rosie was about to explain the beginning of courtships of 99% of the teenagers in town, Frankie dragged you away with the dramatic excuse of being so hungry he can eat a horse and how he’ll drop dead if he doesn’t get a shake.

As you make it to the table Rosie had sent you to, you’d think that Frankie would have pulled out your chair, but a couple of some teens you remember seeing at school look in yours and Frankie’s direction whispering among themselves. You took a seat and looked at Frankie to ask if he knew them but as you were about to ask, you saw his face looking back at them with a deep stare. He gave them a single nod towards the door and to your surprise, they ran. Frankie scanned the room and he knew everyone would be taking in the scene. Frankie had never taken a girl out in public – especially not a girl like you. Sure people knew about other girls he’s been with, but everyone knew they weren’t together.

Frankie sat down after everyone in the diner turned their attention back to where it previously was and he passes you a diner menu, but still tense due to the eyes that locked with his back once more.

When the waitress you learned was named Vi and was obsessed with Will, Frankie had ordered a basket of fries for the two to share, a cherry soda for him and a sundae of your pick for you. Vi was also an older woman, best friends with Rosie, and had an innocent crush on Will’s blonde self. Frankie told you about the time Will brought Vi a bouquet of flowers for her birthday and Vi almost attacked the poor kid to the ground with kisses. Vi was sweet and she made you feel very good about yourself as she fixed your collar and fluffed your hair because “her Frankie needs to see what he’s got in front of him.”

You were nearly done with your sundae as you heard the distinctive pitch that is Benny’s voice as he said “What’s cookin’ good lookin’ don’t you look like a dream,” and wrapped an arm around your shoulder. You greet each and every one of the boys as they take their seats around the table – Benny calling dibs on one of the seats next to you. Benny puts his arm around the back rest of your white chair and calls Vi over to place a new order.

As the night continues, you feel free. You feel so relaxed and at ease with the boys around you that you don’t even notice the dirty looks some girls were giving you. Benny puts his head on your shoulder and give his cheek a little pat resulting in Benny playfully trying to bite your hand. Frankie clears his throat and Benny looks over at him and smirks.

“I ain’t trynna steal ya girl, Frankie. If she hangin’ with us, ya gotta get used to us playin ‘round.”

Frankie turns red as Benny calls you “his girl” and rolls his eyes with a chuckle. He looks out the window and immediately tenses. You follow his gaze and see a 1942 black Ford with some boys in it – one of the being that Jack guy from school – revv its engine as it speeds back and forth through the parking lot. He grabs the boys eyes and directs them towards the window and Benny stands up immediately. The boys follow suit and Frankie turns to you.

“Stay here alright, doll? We’ll be back.”

You turn from Frankie to the window and back to Frankie with a worried look painting your face. “What’s going on Frankie?”

“They shouldn’t be here. This ain-“ You both turn at the sound of a crash and see Pope being held against Frankie’s car by a guy in a black tee with its sleeves rolled. Frankie runs out of the diner and you run after him. You know you shouldn’t be getting in between this, but you aren’t going to let anyone hurt your new friends.

Frankie runs up behind this guy, turns him around, and shoves him away from his car and friends. The guy smirks and nods at Frankie. “Did you miss me Frankie?”

“What the hell are you doing here, Oberyn? We already told ya friend there that this ain’t your turf.”

You had to admit, Oberyn had this strut to him that showed his self-confidence and the combination of his flirtatious smile and smoldering eyes only made him more attractive than he already was. Jack came to stand next to him and as he turned to toss some keys over to another friend of his, you caught sight of the word VIPERS with two snakes on the back of his jacket.

“Yeah… he told me ‘bout it. But ya anna know what else Jackie told me? He told me that ya got ya’self a knockout.” Oberyn locks eyes with you and winks. He tries to walk over to you, but Frankie pushes back and away from you.

“Don’t get near her.” Oberyn lets out a sarcastic chuckle and gets in Frankie’s face.

“How ‘bout ya make me, Morales?”

The next thing you knew, you were yelling and crying with Will held you away as you saw Frankie and Oberyn duke it out on the concrete while Benny and Pope tried to pry Oberyn away – Jack and some other guy pushing them away. You caught a glimpse of Frankie’s bruising cheek and Oberyn’s bloody nose. You only noticed the officer’s arrival once Will dragged you back in the diner and making sure Rosie held you back as he ran back to be by Frankie’s side when the local sheriff gets out the car.

dreamboat taglist:

@ickleronniekinsemotionalrange @funerals-with-cake @seasonschange-butpeopledont

#frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #francisco morales #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales x you #francisco catfish morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x you #catfish morales #francisco catfish morales x you #triple frontier #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #dreamboat #catfish morales x you #catfish morales x reader

65 notes · View notes

tsaritsa · 4 years ago

Text

check my time

firstly; ever write something and be like. oh damn. i wrote that bitch? that's me rn

secondly, this title is taken from rebecca black's friday. shenanigans were had in the royai support group discord in which we were determined to title some fics with that immortal song. come hang with us! it's pretty fun and we only occasionally have so-bad-it's-good ideas like this.

you can also read this over on ao3

It is perhaps, unsurprising, that Major Mustang initially believes that it was because of him that she signed up for service. His idyllicism is perhaps the most enduring trait she has to remember him by: a young man, proudly wearing his blues and speaking of the way he would coax the country in a better, grander, position than where it started. His inherent paternalism – and it is that, he wants to make the country into his image and nothing less – is inherited from her own father. He too, believed, understood, proved that he knew the way forward.

It is a bit of a joke now how personally he seems to take this new knowledge – this was not part of his plan. Perhaps he thought he would return after the war, a decorated hero with new depths to those dark eyes and sweep her off her feet like so many of her dorm sisters have been in recent years. What few letters that do make their way to the estate – and subsequently, months later to the front – are notices of marriage, and once, an invitation to attend herself. Laura had been one of the kinder girls, and a small part of Riza that’s been tucked away between the notches on her rifle would’ve liked to see her in white, watched the celebration with a distance that Laura wouldn’t have questioned or assumed was rude.

But Riza is unable to entertain such fantasies. This country would rather look the other way than acknowledge the cost of this war, the amount of people being flung into the sand just to keep the effort justifiable. There are rumours that another train line has been taken out, and necessary supplies that were already months late will now never arrive. It’s a wonder any letters managed to find their way to her at all.

Major Mustang has a peculiar habit of finding her no matter where she is in the encampment. At first, she pegs it down to coincidence, but later it becomes clearer that he is seeking her out in some fashion, even if most times he refuses to engage with her at all. Perhaps he thinks he can protect her in this way, a careful eye watching from a distance. It is laughable. The distance Riza is able to set between herself and any unwanted target easily outstrips his distance for accuracy. She can and will limit her damage. He razes through it all as if the end result is the only thing that matters. Perhaps that’s true. The reality of bending a land, a people, to your will is never as simple as her superiors make it out to be.

Part of her resents this treatment, resents the hovering that the others in her unit have picked up on. They’re snipers, after all. They’re meant to look at the wider picture, notice small, subtle shifts in the landscape. It takes them a little longer to deduce who he’s trying to shadow, but after another few days of watching him not-wander with not-purpose, her spotter nudges her, faintly tilting his head towards 11 o’clock.

“Perhaps he’s never seen a woman with short hair before. I hear he came from Central – fuckwits, the lot of them.”

Her spotter, Dylan, is a stout young man, with a face that had not lost the fat of his youth until very recently. He, like her, was pushed through quickly, at the pleading of higher-ups who were wholly unprepared for their theatres of war. The two of them are well aware of the incompetence that has resulted in their posting. This knowledge is what protects them more than the briefings they receive.

A tense smile pulls at the edges of her lips. “I have the unfortunate pleasure of being acquainted with him. I would hesitate to paint him with the same brush as the soldiers from the last tour though.”

Dylan scoffs, picking at the cervidae meat the cooks managed to scrounge up. It’s probably a sacred animal in these parts. “Does he think you don’t belong here?”

Riza hums. “I think he envisioned a different future for me. I think I’ve ruined the fantasy.”

The man introduced to her briefly as Maes Hughes seeks her out some weeks later. He is an interesting man. Riza thinks he is like the prisms that fracted light in her Father’s study: she spies different fragments of him, personalities and idiosyncrasies that layer over one another if you view him just so. He is canny and shrewd, and Riza is not surprised that Major Mustang has made his acquaintance. His ability to seek out power and bend it to suit his whims is perhaps the most crucial thing to understand about him. It does not necessarily matter what the substance of the power is, it only matters in how he can exploit it for his personal use.

“Hawkeye,” Maes Hughes says shortly, deliberately stepping into pace with her as she moves through the camp. She had been seeking some rest. She knows now that that will be difficult to do unless she plays his game.

“Captain Hughes,” she responds, dipping her head in acknowledgment. It is perhaps a little ruder for a greeting than other superiors would allow, but Riza surmises that Maes Hughes doesn’t care much for inane rules and pageantry out here. He is not thriving in this environment, merely surviving like her.

“This isn’t about Roy,” he begins, and Riza appreciates the bluntness. “Well, not from him. But I thought we could talk.”

Riza inclines her head to the outer encampment, the side that overlooks into the valley. It’s never as busy here, particularly in the afternoon as the sun sinks down over the mountains and the desert chill begins to set in. “What about?” She will make him work for this conversation. She is well aware of who could – would – be privy to it.

Hughes is quiet for a moment as he leans against one of the tent poles. “I confess I’m curious about the two of you. Roy is fiercely protective of you. Others are beginning to notice.”

“He’s stubborn like that.”

“Is there a reasonable explanation for his behaviour?”

Part of Riza thinks it would be rather funny to divulge her secrets again. Make his power and devastation inert by granting everyone the same ability that he wields so selfishly, covets even more so. But it’s a passing fancy, a fantasy she’ll never get to fully realise, much like the goals she imagines he had in place for her. Hughes has already played some of his cards by investigating what he’s already identified to be Mustang’s weakest link, and Riza feels it’s only fair to work within the estimation he has already formed of her. She will never let her back be used against her again. Major Mustang put paid to that lesson for her.

“His alchemy apprenticeship was a few houses down from where I lived. There weren’t many young people in the village. We were… acquaintances, I suppose,” she begins, testing the words on her tongue. Dylan hadn’t needed a story to assess Major Mustang. He didn’t need to be convinced of anything he couldn’t already surmise from looking at him.

“Perhaps he was sweet on me; I confess I never paid much attention, as my father was a sick man and required almost all of my attention. It was strange to realise that one of the soldiers I saved was someone I knew –” the parapraxis isn’t lost on her but Hughes’ face is impassive, waiting. Either he was a good listener or what he was suspicious of had not been confirmed so far. “ – Maybe it is strange for him too,” she concludes, rubbing the muscle that connects her thumb to the fleshy part of her palm.

Hughes appears to mull over her words. “He must be very sweet on you, then.” There’s a warning nestled in that sentence, an acknowledgment that he caught her use of tense just as he corrects her on which is the truth – what he knows is the truth.

Riza rolls her shoulders slowly. “I wouldn’t assume to know his feelings on the matter. He hasn’t talked to me since our last meeting. In all honesty, Captain, I don’t think there is much to talk about either. We’re just ghosts in each other’s pasts.”

“He doesn’t treat you like a ghost.”

“My spotter has come to calling him that. He always seems to lingering like some forgotten shade.”

Hughes pushes himself off the tent pole he was leaning against, shoving his hands into his pockets. Riza was right, he is a clever man – knows better than to needle someone continually for information they’re not willing to part with yet. His patience would undoubtedly be tempering some of Major Mustang’s worst impulses. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t approached her again.

“I just felt warning you would be the right thing to do,” he says. “Considering I’m now not alone in my understandings.”

Riza blinks slowly. “Thank you for the warning, Captain Hughes,” she replies. He probably thinks he’s being kind, extending a hand to the young ingénue who’s out of her depth in a horror that’s only halfway done. Maybe Major Mustang had crafted that story for Hughes as well; of his role in this story he still seems to be writing. He is the hero. They are the supporting cast as much as the sand they stand on.

I thought you’d wait for me; he had hissed over the campfire at their first meeting.

I thought you’d help people; she had taunted as the embers sunk into the ash.

#fullmetal alchemist #royai #riza hawkeye #maes hughes #fma #my fanfic #been a while so why not just sink my teeth into my fav hobby #aka riza murking the fuck outta roy's character

32 notes · View notes

darrowsrising · 3 years ago

Note

After your post about Mustang and Ephraim I am wondering, what do you feel about Ephraim as a character in general?

Hi! Thank you for the question!

Just wanted to get a tad bit deeper into the previous question: I don't proclaim absolute truth about any Red Rising take - I know that Virginia's pardons are not fair to Ephraim or the victims, I am not absurd, I just think that they are the better option at the end of the day and if I were her I would do the same. Those Golds were vital in liberating Luna, Earth and Mars and that was, at the end of the day, way more important for the living people of the Republic than it was for the dead. I love Virginia, but I am very aware that her decisions or her lack of action, for any reason, affects people negatively too and she's not even aware of the exact impact. That doesn't really make her evil, she pardoned people who helped the Republic at the end of the day, she did not make peace with the Society and when it proved to be a scam - as though it was not obvious from the start, hello, they are fascist slavers - she did not try to cut the Free Legions loose to save face. That in my book is high treason - not entirely evil, but a bitch move nonetheless.

After Dark Age I did a look back on how I perceived Ephraim in Iron Gold, because a lot of my issues with him dialed down a while after he got sober. Guess a proper sort of purpose did him well alongside that.

But to be honest, Ephraim was never my favourite and he will never be. I think he is an interesting character with lots of depth and possibly the most forshadowed death in the series, which adds a lot to the interesting side of things. It's just that...I don't vibe with him I guess.

I also find it fascinating that he changed so much and even found himself living for Volga and wanting to give her a better life and protect her. He used to get by for Trigg, but realised he should live for more. I like him as a character and I respect him. I just...am not that invested in him either, I guess.

I still don't like him much in Iron Gold, but I understand him. His Dark Age arc was well done and he was even confronted about his past deeds and I appreciated what he brought to the table both as an individual and as a perspective.

I found him more of a shithead than the funny guy the fandom says he is - kind of like when Sevro does stupid shit that is not funny in the least, but with Sevro it happens once, maybe twice, per book. Ephraim is a constant shithead and an annoying one at that. There are funny situations in his pov, but he's not a funny person for me. Which is not a bad thing per se, but when he was supposed to be funny it just fell flat for me. He's irritating when he's on drugs, whether zoladone or God's breath.

I appreciated him way more for his actions than for his humour that is for sure.

Also, I sort of detached from him because the forshadowing hit hard and I knew he'll die from IG. It was a matter of when and how that was all.

I understand why he is like he is and everything, he's not my cup of tea, though.

All that being said, despite my complicated relationship with Eph's character, I did my best to answer the previous questions honestly and with not too much bias. Of course you can disagree with me and be against the pardons.

As for the hatred Eph bore Virginia and Darrow...well, fan or not, I just cannot agree or like his attitude. Aside from that, I found that the way he shifts blame, excuses himself and never ever takes action extremely telling - yes, Darrow and Virginia made mistakes that have impacted people they are not even aware of and it's not ok (I think we all did that at some point in our lives), but are they really the root of all evil? How does he know there is nothing to be done to save the new world and make meaningful change except by killing all highColors? Has he even tried something, anything?

I am not trying to shift the blame unto Eph, I am just trying to say that his accusations are exaggerated and his attitude unfounded. Hence why he even stopped alltogether in DA, I believe.

Anyway, hope clears some things out better, because I felt I did not do a good enough job on the previous questions.

Howl on! 🐺🤗

#ephraim ti horn #grarnir

8 notes · View notes

roleplay-abiogenesis2 · 4 years ago

Text

How to be Good to a Seme - 1

So, this isn’t calling out grievances to anyone in particular, but rather some food for thought I want to dump on all of you who, like many, may have followed my blog because of the huge collection of seme powerhouses it hosts.

I hope these tidbits can help you in finding RP more enjoyable for yourself as well as any other RPer with muses like mine who are typically portrayed as more domineering and in charge, not just in smut situation but in all aspects of love life and out. Some of mine include Sephiroth, Fushimi Saruhiko, Munakata Reisi, Roy Mustang, Jumin Han, Sesshoumaru, Genjo Sanzo, to name the most popular...

As a very first disclaimer I want to instantly destroy one common myth: a seme muse does NOT appreciate a 24/7 submissive uke partner.

You know what I’m talking about here. The typical ‘girlified’ (and I apologize to all girls for using this term) partner who is stereotypically portrayed in fanarts as being a stuttering, trembling, meek mess in the hands of his/her dom seme.

I’ll tell you here and now, having a partner who is like that fulltime gets boring and annoying SUPER FAST. Why? Because the seme thrives on conquering control.

So where’s the enjoyment in taking control over someone who just hands it over like it’s hot shit? None. If the partner is always appearing weak, lacking in its own will, without providing any tug-of-war dynamics with the seme, the seme will get bored, and go look for an actual challenge. There’s no game in overpowering someone who in the first place shows no power at all.

Do not misconstrue my words as saying that the seme is rape-y. That’s a whole other can of worms on top of a really shitty stereotype that I do not wish to address in this post. But you must think of the muse as a cat, the typical “playing cat and mouse” metaphor works wonders to describe this. If you just give a cat a dead toy that it can do anything with, the cat will soon leave it be and look for something that actually moves, runs, fights back a bit. Provides a challenge and makes the reward of taking charge so so much more rewarding.

So this might open the eyes to some of you on why your seme partner (and me) seems to react with disapproval, hostility, or boredom upon immediately receiving control of your designated uke/sub partner. It is a delicate balance that you must achieve, not go to the unrealistic extreme that’s often portrayed in art. Remember that fanarts are still images, they don’t show all the in-betweens, before and after of a couple dynamic. Do not use that still image as reference for what your power play fantasy is supposed to be. It’s not going to work.

I may do more of these eventually, but right now I just wanted to dump this burning thought out of my head. Let me know your thoughts if you like, but be civil.

#00A || Saru-mun is still alive! [OOC]

9 notes · View notes

dontlettheicecreammelt · 3 years ago

Text

Hello, Atlanta!

[Ok, so this is the FOURTH time that I've started this blog AND for some reason it doesn't save so that I can post it. I don't know what the deal is but since I've finally stopped cussing, I can now start typing again. B*tches and H*es! ]

The Smiths have landed in Atlanta. I feel like I've been through hell and back to come and get here. Things, of course, didn't go as planned and we just adjusted and kept it moving. We were supposed to leave Monday, Aug 16, but ended up leaving the next day instead. We spent 2 1/2 days on the road and arrived in McDonough Friday at 4:45 a.m. - our new home.

Now that I have been here an entire week, there are a few things that stick out:

1. IT'S EVERYTHING AND NOTHING THAT I EXPECTED.

Now don't get me wrong, from the moment I rolled into our area, I knew that this place would make my soul happy.

Our home is beautiful. Our subdivision is fairly new and there are still homes being built as we speak. After school hours, there are kids running around the neighborhood. Like actually outside playing blasketball and running around. It's a little strange and refreshing all at the same time.

We are on the corner of a cul-de-sac and there is a wooded area directly behind our house. While I haven't been down there yet, it appears lush and green. At night, you can hear the critters chirping (my OC is showing, I know. I don't know what it's called, but we'll just go with "chirping" ok). There are often times when you can hear a faint passing by train and all together it's actually quite relaxing and tranquil.

You have to come through country roads to get to our subdivision. During the day, the roads are surrounded by lots of greenery - bushes, trees, etc. At night, there are little to no street lights, so it's dark and since we're about 35 minutes from the city, there is no light pollution. It's dark, quiet and peaceful.

Ok this humidity tho...I knew what to expect. But it's waaay different when you have to be up in it in real life. Dear God! Never have I had to experience this with hot flashes in tow. No bueno, man. No bueno. Being schwetty is not sexy, no matter what you think.

2. DRIVING IN THE "A".

Ok, one thing I've noticed that is quite perplexing is the amount of cars on the shoulder of the highway. If any fellow Georgians can help me out, I would appreciate it. I swear that everytime I get on the highway there is a car on the shoulder. I might not have realized it had Waze not been a snitch. "Watch out! Vehicle on shoulder ahead!". Why? I recall one time there were 3 cars on the shoulder within a stretch of about a mile. Whyyyy!? I suspect that we don't have that much out in Cali because they are so quick to ticket and tow out there. But I really have no idea what's going on here. I'll let it remain one of history's mysteries - for now.

Speaking of driving, enter in the Georgia drivers on the highway. Now I should first preface it by saying that Atlanta is the transportation hub of the Southeast because they house one of the busiest airports, so the highways have a bazillion big rigs at all hours of the day. Add that to the common 2 to 4 lane highways that I get on, and you can understand how claustrophobic that can feel. Back to the drivers, there are two types of drivers here. You have those that are on the slow track 24/7 and are totally oblivious to the fact that there are other drivers even on the road and then you have the other extreme, usually in a Charger or a Mustang, thinking the highway is their private speedway and are weaving in and out of the lanes as such. There doesn't seem to be much in the middle (except for me, of course).

3. GAS STATIONS AND CHICKEN.

Ok, when I tell you that there's no shortage of gas stations, believe me. I feel like on every corner there's a couple of gas stations. (Ok, maybe not on every corner, but close.) Yes, I'm excited because the gas here is under $3.00, but most importantly, there is usually some chicken spot affiliated with the gas station. Fried, crispy, wings, bbq - you name it, they've got it. Independant from the gas stations, there's still a plethora of chicken places here. If there was ever a chicken shortage in the world, it may or may not be because of Georgia. I'm just saying.

I think in a nutshell, that is all that I can report for now. After all, it is my first week here. Overall, I love it - how green everything is, the fresh air outside, how much slower paced everything is and how that southern hospitality is present. Georgia has really started growing on me and so far, this place allows me to be happy in my own space. One day at a time.

#DontLetTheIceCreamMelt #JustLive

2 notes · View notes

fluffykitty1999-blog · 3 years ago

Text

Burned Chapter 16

Roy sat at the small desk with his ballot and pen, looking at the choices carefully.

"You said Susans wants to increase school funding and make the train schedule rigid. Trevors wants to restructure taxes and better waste disposal. And Xavier...?"

"Wants to slash the police budget to 'keep the cost of living down'." Ed frowned, looking unhappy at the notion. "I was actually headed towards the theater yesterday to see if I could catch the end of the debates when I found the newest victim."

"Right." Roy paused for a moment, thinking, before marking the box for Susans and standing, casting his ballot in the box and leaving, Ed quick behind him.

"So- how long until the election results come out?"

"Tomorrow morning. The voting closes at nine, and they'll be up until the wee hours of the morning counting votes. The morning papers will definitely be running the results."

"Huh. Neat." Ed stuffed both hands in his coat pockets as they kept walking along.

"Why the sudden interest in politics, anyways? You never really cared about rank." Roy admitted.

Ed shrugged. "I don't care for politics. But you do. You want to be Furher someday. And it's not a bad idea- having a basic understanding of the politics surrounding you can help you make a good decision and avoid getting stabbed in the back."

"So you've actually been paying attention to some of this stuff then?"

"That and any report I can get my hands on about this serial killer. People say things to me- people nobody listen to. The frustrated farmers, the miners in the dead end towns in the middle of nowhere- a lot of powerful people don't pay attention. But I do. I try to catalog it all away so I know the best decision to make. And who I can count on to back my interests in a crisis. Even the politicians let things slip to me, because they think I'm just a kid."

"Really, like what?"

"I... that promotion that was happening? Where Colonel Lincoln was made Brigadier General in west city?"

Roy stopped walking and his eyes hardened. He'd been more qualified for that position, but he hadn't even been considered.

"I knew you weren't going to get it." Ed said lamely.

Roy caught the boy by the shoulder to stop him walking and spun him around. "How?"

"I was at a bar in west city, chasing a lead on the stone. I ran into some drunk local- was trying to find the mineral broker's shop. But all the guy kept bragging about was how his brother was going to be brigadier general in 3 weeks. Cheated his way to the top."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Roy's features were stern, and he was pissed.

"Because... it was just going to frustrate you. There was nothing you could've done-"

"You don't know that! If you'd have told me, maybe I could've done something to out-compete him. You're my subordinate, you're supposed to report those things to me!"

"There's no way you could've beaten him-"

"And how do you know that, Ed?" Roy seethed.

Edward stepped closer to Roy, his eyes steely and voice sharp and barely above a whisper. "Because you wouldn't have let Lieutenant General Atkins fuck you. Lincoln did. I know you want to make it to the top. But I've been under your command long enough to know you wouldn't sacrifice your principles for it."

Roy's fists unclenched, and he found himself dumbfounded. "You're sure it's not a rumor? Just some drunk guy rambling?"

"No. It's not. I checked the current assignments when I got back- Lincoln and Atkins had been sent to a remote post near Drachma for reconnaissance together. Apparently they'd made an... arrangement... while they were there. Sex for rank. I wasn't sure if it was true, but when news of the promotion came about I knew it was..."

Roy sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "And why didn't you tell me this?"

"Because... you'd have gotten mad at me. Like you just did." Ed looked defensive and slightly angry as he glared at Roy, before his eyes found the ground. "Besides, it happens all the time. People try and trade... favors... for rank."

"No, Ed, they don't. Not in my office."

"I know you don't..." Ed bit his lip, kicking a stone with his boot.

Why wouldn't Ed meet his eyes? Realization hit Roy like a spark exploding into flame, and his eyes widened.

"Who? Who propositioned you, Ed?"

"You're gonna get mad again. It's nothing, can we just drop it?" there was a note of pleading in Ed's voice, and Roy frowned.

He took a deep breath and sighed. "No, Ed, we can't. Because you're a child and I got you into the military, and it's my duty to protect you."

"What are you gonna do, anyways? Anything you do will get swept under the rug, you're gonna throw away your whole career for one stupid kid?"

"I didn't say that." Roy took a breath, steadying himself. His heart pounded and he felt shaky. "More then likely, Ed, I won't be able to do anything. Right now. But I want to know because you are my subordinate, and it's my duty to protect you. And even if I can't do anything about it now, I want to know the name, so that I can put them at the top of my shit list when I have the rank to make their life hell. I'm not going to do anything stupid- but I'd like to know what happened."

Ed's eyes darted around the room. They were in a mostly empty hallway- the voting poll closed soon. "Not here." he said finally.

Alphonse was upstairs reading, out of earshot.

Ed sat morosely at the kitchen table, and Roy angrily put on the kettle, slamming it on the burner with more force than necessary.

What was most unnerving was that Ed still wouldn't meet his eyes, staring at the table like it was the most interesting thing in the room.

He opened the cupboard, pulling out their two favorite mugs, parking them on the counter and splashing a little milk into the bottom of both cups, before squeezing a generous amount of honey into the other cup- Ed's cup. Ed always seemed happier after he'd drank tea that was very sweet. He hung two teabags over the rim of each cup.

The kettle started to sing, and Roy plucked it from the stove, filling both cups before taking them both by the handle, walking over to the table and sliding the forest green mug across the table to Ed, and nursing his own yellow mug close to him as he sat down.

"Well?" Roy cocked an eyebrow.

Ed glanced up at him, before he was staring into his mug. It was rare that the Fullmetal alchemist was without words, and it settled like a block of ice in Roy's gut.

"Did they do more than talk? Ed, did they hurt you?"

"No! I... let me drink my damn tea. I'm trying to figure out how to explain it." Ed groused, frustrated, before he was taking a minuscule sip of scalding tea.

Roy waited one moment, two... The silence made him anxious. But he needed to be patient with Ed, couldn't push the boy.

"Remember when Major General Cole came up to visit from South City?" Ed said finally.

Roy frowned. "That was 8 months ago. You'd just passed the state alchemy exam." Ed had just turned 13. He remembered because Hawkeye had insisted they share a cake in the office with the boy the day before the visit. Ed had seemed surprised but please, and thanked her for the cake. He'd devoured his piece happily, and licked all the frosting from his fork. Ed really did like sweet things. Ed had been quiet for the next few days, but Roy had assumed it was because he was sad Al couldn't have a birthday like a normal kid as well...

"Yeah. Well I was in the washroom that day, and I was... using the urinal..." it was hard for Ed to keep the blush from his cheeks. "And this guy walked in. And he went behind me into a stall, and I thought, no big deal, he's gotta go too."

"And when I was washing my hands, I felt a hand on my shoulder. And I turned around and this guy is staring at me. And I saw the bars on his chest- I didn't even know what rank he was, just that he was higher than you- and I tried to salute him because I was nervous, but my hands were all soap, and it was just a mess. I got soap in my eyes."

Roy suppressed the urge to smile. While the mental image was funny, if he'd laughed Ed would've thought he was laughing at him, and been more embarrassed. And there was nothing funny about this situation.

"He told me to relax. Said he was Major General Cole from South city and he wanted to know if I was the Fullmetal Alchemist. So I said yeah, and he said he'd heard I was a prodigy. He said that with how far I'd moved up the ranks already- I was a major- he said if I transferred to under his command, he'd make me a Lieutenant Colonel in 3 months. If I worked for it. And I thought that was really cool, to be the same rank as Hughes, but then I noticed he was getting closer to me and so I stepped back."

"He reached up and touched my braid. Said I'd have to put in work to make it happen though. Spend late nights at the office with him so he could show me what I needed to know. That was when I started feeling kinda weird... Then he told me I looked like a girl. And that a face like mine would be appreciated in his office.

"I told him I wasn't interested. He asked whose command I was under and I said Mustang, and I lied and told him you'd be mad because I was supposed to be back with an urgent report. I know I lied but I was scared and I didn't like him and so I turned and left. I knew he might try something if I was alone, but he thought you were expecting me, so he didn't."

"And you didn't tell me any of this." Roy was disappointed- both that Ed was too scared to tell him, and that he'd been put in that position in the first place.

"I didn't want to make waves. I'd only just got my state alchemist watch, and I figured it wasn't important. I didn't want enemies."

"You didn't trust me and my team to protect you?"

"No, I did, I just... It wasn't important at the time, alright? I had bigger things on my mind. I mean, yeah, it was weird, but I had to start looking for the stone with Al, so I put it aside because I had work to do. Even now, I just try to stay clear of officers from South City."

Roy sighed. "I wished you'd told me sooner."

"Yeah, I should have... What are you gonna do to him? Major General Cole, I mean?"

"I'm not going to do anything. I'm going to mention it to Hawkeye. And she's going to watch his every move until he files a report late or misses some paperwork or drops the ball. And then an anonymous report will get put in and he'll get in trouble. He's gotta drop the ball sometime. And if he doesn't- well, when I'm fuhrer, he'll clean latrines for the rest of his damn life."

"Right. That's good." Ed sipped his tea, looking slightly relieved. It was almost 10, now, and Ed looked at the clock, acutely aware of the time. "Any news from Hughes on the investigation?"

"No." Mustang sat up a little straighter, acutely aware. "And you're not sneaking out to try and catch the killer tonight either, understand?"

"Hey I was just asking." Ed put both hands up, defensive. He took a long pull of warm tea and yawned. "I'm tired, anyways. Hughes can handle it. I was just gonna do some reading and go to bed. Oh..." Ed paused, looking up at Roy hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"Can... can we get a newspaper tomorrow morning? I want to know who won the election." Ed was almost shy about asking, and Roy smiled.

"Yeah. Yeah, we can get a newspaper tomorrow."

"Cool. I hope Susans wins. I hate waiting for trains." Ed punctuated the statement with a yawn, taking his half-full mug and standing, heading upstairs.

"'Night."

"Goodnight, Edward.".

If Roy knew Edward well enough, the boy would be asleep soon after he finished his tea. That was one of the little things about Edward he hadn't known until the boy had moved in with him. That the boy was much more relaxed and easy to send to bed after he'd had warm tea with a considerable amount of honey in it.

Edward climbed the stairs and was about to head to his room when he noticed a candle burning in the study. He paused, mug in hand, before he was ducking inside. There, on the desk, was a worn journal opened to a page. There was an alchemic array he hadn't seen before sketched in the middle of the page, and for a moment, his fatigue was forgotten, replaced by curiosity.

The handwriting was old and spidery, hard to read and definitely not Roy's. But the array looked familiar. It looked- it almost looked like the array on Roy's gloves.

Ed paused, looking down at the book in awe. It was a manual on flame alchemy- something rare and hard to understand. Something he'd been able to think about, but never perform.

He wasn't sure he should be looking at it. But now that it was in front of him, it was hard to tear his eyes away... There was no such thing as forbidden, was there? Not when he'd already committed the ultimate taboo of human transmutation. Besides, if flame alchemy could help him reach his goal...

Ed swallowed down his racing heart. Since when was he afraid? He'd never been afraid to break rules before. He picked up the book, pocketing it, blowing out the candle and ducking into his own room, lighting his own candle and starting to pour over the book.

When he heard mustang start to climb the stairs, he quickly blew out his candle and ducked beneath the covers, hiding the book beneath the sheets and feigning sleep. He heard Mustang pause at his door, checking he was asleep, before he continued on down the hall, to his own room. Once Ed was sure he was gone, he struck another match, re-lit his candle, and continued reading, pulling a notebook from the nightstand and starting to take notes.

Flame alchemy was the most complicated thing he'd read of, let alone attempted, since human transmutation.

What’s this? A button to donate currency to the caffinated liquid fund? O.o https://ko-fi.com/fluffykitty12

#fma fanfiction #FMA #burned #burns #injury #accident #Edwhumph #edward elric whumph #parentalroy #parental roy #roy mustang #ed whump #whumph #whump #angst #hurt ed #comfort #hurt #hurt/comfort

4 notes · View notes

liquorisce · 4 years ago

Text

... tell me i’m beautiful?

pairing: royai, roy mustang x riza hawkeye

fandom: Full Metal Alchemist (Brotherhood/Manga)

summary: on some nights Riza is delicate. and Roy is possessive. (warning: unhealthy amounts of pining.) (also havoc is a good friend) 3677 words.

a/n: i saw on my tumblr feed that it’s fma day (3.10) (the day when the greatest angst of our generation was born), and i was hit with major feels for full metal alchemist. it truly is one of the greatest stories of our generation. anyway, here is some old royai from my wip notes that i had to dust the cobwebs off of (that my anxious ass never had the balls to post). my writing style has changed over the years, but my heart is still so full for these two, so it was fun to rewrite.

The buzz around the Eastern Headquarters is that one of the Top ranks is getting hitched and that it’s going to be a fancy affair, traditional with a masquerade ball.

When Roy sees an invite in his post, he’s rather surprised. But the wedding is in Central and it’s an excuse to see his best friend, so it doesn’t seem so bad after all.

“Lieutenant,” he asks, just as she is about to leave for the day, “what’s all this I hear about a ball at the General’s wedding?”

“It seems we must be accompanied with a date, Sir. You received the invitation four weeks ago.” He detects some annoyance in her words, but he lets it pass, because his brain has begun to imagine Hawkeye in a dress, especially one of those grand, frilly ones.

“Then you will accompany me.”

It was acceptable, the way he states it like it’s the obvious course of action, because he is her superior after all. But it also ticks her off, that he expects it, without even bothering to ask. She may be his subordinate but there are times when she wishes he would just see her as a woman.

“That won’t be possible, Sir.”

She is just as shocked with her own coldness as he is, his eyebrows twitching in question.

“I’m afraid I’ve already promised Havoc I would go as his date.”

His eyes narrow and she sees a flicker of emotion awash in the dark of his eyes and she almost feels as if she’s done something wrong.

But she hasn’t, and she will not apologise. She clenches her fist.

“Ah,” he drawls, not missing a beat, “have you decided what to wear yet?”

That wasn’t the question she was expecting and it throws her off balance.

“I,” she pauses for a moment, to regain her composure, “I haven’t thought about it yet.”

She doesn’t want to engage in his banter anymore, because there are feelings involved - mostly hers, and they are irrational, she thinks - and expectations, expectations that have no basis but are yet difficult to do away with. So she hastens to the door.

He’s quiet for a minute, but because he can’t help himself, he murmurs, “… You should wear green. It suits you."

…

She ends up wearing a dress, it’s slinky, tighter than the clothes she’s used to, slipping past her knees. Somehow she finds herself in heels, black strapped ones she’s borrowed from a friend that she clearly cannot walk in. It lacks the comfort of her boots but she deals with it, because apparently this is the price that comes along with looking pretty.

The dress is borrowed too, but she doesn’t miss the fact that out of all the dresses Rebecca paraded as options, she reached for the dark green one. … Apparently it suited her.

At least that is what she is assured of when Havoc comes to pick her up, his eyes popping in surprise when he sees her.

"Wow,” he let’s out a loose whistle, “you clean up real good, don’t you?"

She blushes and it’s another rare sight. "The Hawkeye blushing?” He teases, “I’ve got to be dreaming."

They make their way to the wedding and Havoc dives headfirst to the bar. She isn’t surprised. She looks around, her eyes seeking whom she had stubbornly decided not to care about and she sees him with a woman - obviously - hanging onto his every word.

An officer of sorts, she guesses, but not from their division, because Roy has unleashed his charm, his eyes twinkling flirtatiously.

She averts her eyes to the bar and to her date, who despite his melancholy has ordered an extra drink for her, a cocktail which he swears is the best he’s ever had. The thought of alcohol seems far more appealing than watching her superior with yet another woman.

…

"Did you want to dance, Lieutenant?"

She’s a few drinks down, he’s had even more and his words are beginning to slur.

"I’m sorry,” he says and he sounds genuinely remorseful. “I just… I can’t get her out of my head."

She pats his head comfortingly and he slumps a little on the counter. "You loved her that much?"

He nods gloomily and Riza pretends to ignore the glisten of his eyes. Havoc’s eyes rest on the newly married couple, a little envious of the ingenuity of their smiles.

"You know, I actually thought we would make it there."

He doesn’t have to say it but Riza knows he’s talking about the altar, of dreams of marriage that he harboured for his ex-girlfriend. He was painful to watch these past few weeks, ever since Rebecca ended things with him, and when he asked her to the wedding, she couldn’t help but agree.

Besides, she had made sure Roy had seen the invitation days ago and if he hadn’t asked her by then, it was quite likely he never would.

"I’m sure you’ll find someone else,” she says comfortingly. “Even we soldiers are allowed to be happy eventually.” She isn’t sure she believes it, but for someone as pure as Havoc, surely fate can be kinder.

He tries his best to put on a smile, nodding with the optimism in her words. “Well hopefully I find happiness before my hair turns grey,” he jokes, making her giggle.

It feels nice, letting her hair down with a friend, even though she would rather let her hair and a lot of other things down with a certain someone else, but she tries not to think of it.

When she turns, the smile is wiped clean off her face, because her gaze catches the eyes of that same someone else, eyes dark as night, hair even darker, swept back to show off the handsome angles of his face. He is with someone else, a pretty brunette with her back bare and his hand splayed on it, and they are moving to the music but his eyes are on her, intense, questioning… reprimanding her almost.

For what? She thinks heatedly, he has no right to look at her like that, like he’s displeased with her, when she cannot even express just how unhappy she is with him.

“But seriously, Lieutenant,” Havoc says, hesitating for a moment, but choosing honesty, “you look amazing tonight. I must be the envy of every man in here."

She lets herself bask in his appreciative gaze and her cheeks heat up. "You really think so?"

He nods, smiling at her. "You sound surprised. A woman like you must be used to such compliments, isn’t it?”

She laughs ruefully. Compliments? She couldn’t remember the last time a man had ever called her pretty. At least not since she entered the military. “You’re the first, Havoc."

His mouth almost gaped open in surprise.

She went on, her frustration further driven by the alcohol in her blood. "No one’s ever even asked me out,” she says, helplessly. “Sure, there had been a few men who seemed interested, but even they never tried to take things further."

The Lieutenant didn’t date, everyone knew that. But listening to her open up about it, doubting herself, he felt for her.

Because he was one of those men too, a long, long time ago.

He remembers when he first joined the unit, newly assigned to Eastern, full of smiles.

The place really was swarming with beautiful women, just as he had heard. He figured he would get on here just fine.

And when he first entered the office of the Major Roy Mustang whom he was assigned to, he thought his heart was going to stop.

He had never seen anyone like her, young, strong, leaning over the table and giving the Major a piece of her mind. She scolded him like she had the authority to, and he listened, even though there was a formal apology attached to her rant in the end.

He was stunned, unable to do anything but watch when she turned around and stalked out of the room, because the view from the front was even better than behind, a round heart-shaped face framed in short blonde hair, deep brown eyes and a body that would make anyone’s thoughts stain the darkest shade of impurity.

Life, of course, had very different plans for them, even though they got closer, just like he wished. One afternoon, Rebecca walked into the office and threw her arms around Riza, and Havoc soon learnt that love was far more nuanced than admiration at first sight.

"At first I thought it was the uniform,” she confesses, “I thought maybe I was just scaring the men away."

You have no idea, he thinks, sighing. Riza Hawkeye was made of fire, and it turned men on even if they were afraid of being burnt by it.

"But my friend Jessica had absolutely no problem when it came to this sort of thing."

She casts her eyes lower, twirling the remnants of her whiskey. "Maybe there’s just something wrong with me."

Her lips lift up in a sardonic grin. "I’m a pretty pathetic Lieutenant, huh?” She rests her forehead against the counter. “I can’t believe I’m here at a wedding, crying over men.” Sighing, she murmurs, “I suppose these feelings are par for course when you have couples dancing all around you."

He rests his hand over the back of her head, ruffling the softness of her locks. "It isn’t pathetic,” he murmurs comfortingly, “You’re only human, after all. We’re all just idiots who want nothing more than to be loved."

He leaves out the part where he willingly offers himself up for the job, spurred a little by his already broken heart and embers of a decade-old attraction that never went away. He could make her feel special, take her out on all the dates she feels she missed out on, tell her she’s beautiful till she never doubts it ever again. It would be a selfish distraction, but Havoc is a romantic, and maybe, just maybe, it would lead them down a different path to happiness.

But he remembers what made him give up that mission in the first place, all those years ago, cold, blazing eyes that delivered a threat far worse than his words.

"There will be no fraternisation within this unit,” he had stated calmly before even Havoc had gotten a chance to admit to it himself. “If I find out you’ve laid a hand on her, I will have you transferred out of Eastern before you know it."

Back then he didn’t know if Major Roy Mustang even had that sort of power. But something else told him that if he didn’t listen it would be his burnt corpse they would be carrying out of Eastern.

Even now Havoc knows it’s useless, that he cannot even comfort her the way he really wants to, because he knows his eyes are here, they don’t leave her, always watching from the corner, staking claim.

"Thanks Havoc,” she says, trying for warm but still sounding miserable, lacing her fingers with his for a brief second in appreciation of his effort to make her feel better.

He sighs. “Would you mind if I went outside for a smoke?” They didn’t allow smoking in the ballroom, and his cravings had kicked in three drinks ago.

“Sure,” she says, “I’ll come with you."

He looks surprised because the Lieutenant has never approved of his smoking, but he thinks maybe she would prefer it to her own company tonight.

But when she tries to stand it’s like the blood has drained from her head, and she falters. Gingerly, she rubs a hand to her forehead.

"On second thought, I think I’ll stay here.” She gets back onto her seat, “I’ve had too much to drink."

"Will you be alright?” He asks, and it is more out of courtesy than anything else because he knows that if she isn’t, he will be by her side in seconds to take care of her.

She assures him she’s fine, that a drink of water will make everything better, even though fine is far from what she feels. Having let out her feelings, she doesn’t feel the light headedness that most claim, just empty and dejected because it is more than just never being told she’s pretty or going out on dates. If only her sorrows were as commonplace as wishing for love. If only she didn’t desire a very specific love. A love she will never have.

“Excuse me,” she mumbles to the waiter,“ could I have a glass of water please?"

He hurries away to get it and she rests her head against the counter. As she closes her eyes, she wonders how they do it, all those women he talks to, all the willing females he engages with. Is it all the giggling?

Does Roy like it if his women show a lot of skin? She remembers the woman from earlier, pale pink fabric shimmering off her dainty frame. Or maybe he likes the petite ones.

She sighs dejectedly. At 5'5”, she had curves that filled out every inch of her uniform and a full chest that had been a major cause of discomfort during military school. She was anything but petite.

In the end what bothers her most is that it probably doesn’t matter if she isn’t skinny or she doesn’t wear clothes that dip to the small of her back. Military rules state they couldn’t be together and it seems Roy wasn’t the least bit tempted to break them.

“I’m afraid all the dancing has made my head spin,” he tells her. “It was really lovely to have the pleasure of your company…” He pauses at the end, awkward because he just spent the last 40 minutes dancing her in circles but he can’t, for the love of God, remember her name.

“It’s Elizabeth,” she purrs, laughing, “You’re just like the rumours say, Colonel! So terrible with names."

She comes closer, her breath damp on the shell of his ear, "And so incredibly handsome."

"I’m flattered,” he says, untangling himself from her, smiling the way he knows is probably misleading, but in this situation it’s polite.

He can’t quite explain it but he is struck by this inexplicable urge to see his own Elizabeth, a sharp contrast to this one’s dark hair and light eyes, her beauty stemming from self-respect that is sorely lacking in most of the women that threw themselves at him.

He can’t pretend that he’s a saint and that there haven’t been a few that have followed him into bed, but there is nothing more than frustration at play here, a compromise of sorts where he can make believe that the girl in front of him is one with pale hair that shimmers and eyes that would always show him the light.

Where he can dream that the lips he kisses are the same bow shaped ones that admonish him at work.

Looking over at the bar counter, he sees that she’s still there, this time with Havoc nowhere to be seen. There’s a small, selfish part of him that rejoices in this fact, because their intimacy and hand-holding had him seeing red a little while ago.

It isn’t fair that he wants her like this, so irrationally and so selfishly, he knows it, but he can’t stop himself from this desire and he knows it often scares men away from her.

He knows there have been times when he has deliberately scared men off of her. He wonders how she would react if she learns of it. Would she have preferred their affections?

When he comes closer he sees that her head is resting on the counter, eyes closed. “Lieutenant,” he calls, but she doesn’t stir. Roy is known to be a little paranoid when it comes to his aide and the tension creeps onto his face, furrowing it’s way between his eyebrows.

He tries calling her again, this time placing his hand on her shoulder and shaking her gently. Her head turns to the side and he can see that her mouth is parted slightly and her breaths are even.

Has she… Passed out?! Laughing to himself, he occupies the seat beside her, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes and tucks it behind her ear. He could happily stay like this forever, wrapped up in the softness of her hair and skin, watching her without interruption as she sleeps. There’s a mole just under her ear, a tiny black little thing and he wonders if he could reach down and kiss it. It would be quick, no one would ever know it.

He could press his lips to her skin, touch his tongue to her earlobe, take it between his teeth maybe, the way he’s always wanted to when they are alone in his office and he is tempted to misuse his rank.

He gives in to this sweet compulsion and bends down, lips pressing ever so lightly against the mark.

She smells sweet, of the lavender she’s been partial to ever since she was a teenager, wrapped in this very same fragrance when she would finish her shower.

Roy knows this because every time she would be anywhere nearby his attention as an apprentice would falter, often earning him rebukes from her father.

He had promised himself just one, but it’s a promise ill-kept because his lips inch further along her jawline, featherlight brushes of temptation going against everything he has worked for.

But what good is his ambition when all it brings him is turmoil, and this cruel deprivation of her? When all he feels every day when he looks at her is longing, immense and painful, to the point of desperation.

Reason loses it’s shine further when he can feel her pulse flutter, and the softest murmur of his name brushes his ear.

“Roy,” she mumbles and it’s so maddening, the effect his name on her lips has, he considers giving her orders to never address him Colonel ever again, “I wore green. Just like you told me to.”

His eyes widen, remembering the day he’d asked her to accompany him. She had this look in her eyes, disappointment, frustration - or was it disgust - and he dared to hope she’d go with it anyway, but she didn’t. And the feeling of rejection, of being rejected by Riza, isn’t one he can shake so easily.

“What?” She had asked confused, when the statement he hadn’t intended to say out loud - he liked her in green, and that was something he kept secret, it brought out her eyes - had clearly been heard. “It suits you,” he’d said simply, and her temper had flared. Narrowing her eyes, she had said, “What I choose to wear is none of your business, Sir."

She’d emphasized the last word with as much sarcasm as one could possibly fit into one syllable.

He had laughed that day… a frustrated laugh, but now seeing that she actually listened to him, he thinks maybe what he thought mattered much more than what she let on.

"I even wore heels,” she whispers, still drunk, slurring the s’s.

“You did,” he says slowly, because he noticed, just like he notices everything, the way it made her legs look endless, the way it made her hips sway when she walked in with Havoc. He runs an idle finger across her cheek.

“Do I look pretty, Colonel?"

When she speaks these words, he hears the uncertainty behind the pink lips that she licks, barely inches from his.

He could tell her that yes, she’s pretty, but he’d rather show her. With kisses sweeping all over her body, and caresses earning soft sighs from her full mouth.

He could.

And he almost does.

He almost kisses her, full on the mouth, tongue flicking across hers, telling her that pretty is an understatement and that the first time he saw her, he was already mesmerised.

But he is mindful of their surroundings, not wanting to cause her any further disrespect by acting out the increasingly lewd fantasies churning in his mind. Because he doubts a kiss would stay just that, a kiss and nothing more, not when it is Riza underneath him, lips pliant and sweet, testing his restraint.

"Havoc,” he says harshly when he comes to realise the looming figure behind him, keeping his distance but well within hearing radius. “Take her home."

He’s surprised at first, because he was sure he had witnessed something deeper, more intimate between those two tonight. Havoc had seen the Colonel flush, and stroke her skin tenderly, the Lieutenant’s eyes dazed and gazing at him with blatant desire.

"Sir, sh-shouldn’t you?” He stutters, clearly asking something inappropriate and out of turn but he can’t help it. There is no one in the entire hall who could have missed the palpable chemistry between the two of them.

But he doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head, his eyes dark and stormy, and tells him to make sure she has a glass of water before she’s put to bed.

When Havoc walks her out, one hand around her waist and the other firmly holding her arm around his shoulder he realises that he’s a bit irritated with this years-old game of hide-and-seek. His broken heart was urging him to slap some sense into the Colonel and yell, because people who’ve found love - the real kind - have no business denying it.

“I think it should be fairly clear by now why you so rarely get propositioned by men,” he says dryly.

She makes a noise, questioning, barely able to take in his sarcasm or even his words for that matter, as her eyes droop shut.

He takes in the rare sight of a defenseless Hawkeye clinging to his arm and his mouth turns up with the hint of a smile.

“… It isn’t that no one’s interested,” he whispers, “just that everybody knows they wouldn’t stand a chance. Not against him.”

- fin -

#royai #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #full metal alchemist: brotherhood #full metal alchemist #liquorisce fanfiction #fmab

30 notes · View notes

avannak · 5 years ago

Note

I don’t remember if I’ve left an ask about it or not in the last few weeks, but I’m another anon that read Hitchups for the first time really recently! I binged the trilogy, remembered how much I loved the movies as a child, and sought fanfic. I also think that the concept of Toothless and Hiccup leaving is /so compelling/ and you executed something spectacular wonderfully! Thank you!! (Also, if you happen to have any fanfic recs, I would love to hear :) )

HIIII!!! GIT YERSELF READY FOR A LINK DUMP

First, again, HI! Also, I’m a piece of shit who gets to check tumblr mail once a month it feels like. Life is like that for me rn but I do read and appreciate everything!! I’m so glad you managed to find Hitchups despite it being, literally embarrassingly, ten years old now. I’m also absolutely tickled that it still holds up after all this time. It was a subject I was, and still am, passionate about. That Hicctooth bromance, that coming-of age need to explore and grow, that touch of otherworldly interference that is just out of reach of factual history…

So! Fic recs!

I have The Five Fics You Should Have Read | & | Other Great HTTYD Fics You Might Have Missed from my early early days of fic reading that inspired me to try my own hand at it (and thus was born Hitchups).

Those links have my opinions/ratings posted on them. If you don’t want to slog through that and just have straight links, here are a few quick picks:

Mein Vollkommener Beschützer

Good Thing You’re Already Dead

To Soar into the Sunset: A Night Fury’s Odd Memior

Castle Utgard: The Legend of Hogi and Lugi

Principles and Elements

Talking in her Sleep

By Land and Sea

Angles of the Silences

Winter Haul, Sting of Spring, Summer’s Fervor, and Turning Autumn

Dragon Journals

To be God Touched

One Last Problem

Things on a similar thread to Hitchups that you may be interested in:

To Be God Touched by Celestra

Castle Utgard by Grim Revolution

To Soar into the Sunset: A Night Fury’s Odd Memoir by Fjord Mustang

- also by her, Logic of Steel

The Truth is a Shard of Ice by Whitefang333

Now, I stopped reading httyd fanfic not long after Hitchups was finished. I lost my appetite for it, I suppose, though not my appetite for the fandom itself mind you. The introduction of the TV show really… uh… twisted most of the new/available content. And before the RotBTD was a thing that had already… um… flavored the waters so… that raw, wholesome, original first-movie!HTTYD energy that sucked me back to this ‘kids movie’ so many times? That had been lost for me. That’s why a lot of the fics I rec are aged. They’re from a time before the fandom really exploded and introduced so many new people and ideas. Which means my options are dated and there are probably TONS of great fics out there I can’t vouch for!

THAT SAID, two things I’ve had on my ‘to read’ list that might also flow along the ‘Hitchups’ theme of things are:

Infernal Responsibility by @p-artsypants

Umbreytingu by @elfpen

A Thing of Vikings by @athingofvikings

They are all stellar people from what I’ve expirienced interacting with them and can create some equally stellar stuff so, please, check them out!

And, to finalize things I have a list of Hictooth drabbles I wrote

Hitchups (OFF SITE, multi-chapter) (AO3) ya read it and it aint a drabble

Tale of the Dragon’s Wrath

Bigs and Littles (httyd book crossover)

Amuse Me

Oblation

Backseat (modern au)

Torture

Daring

Circle of Life (character death)

Solace

Forgiveness

Packing (modern au)

Haunt Me

Downed Dragon (feral!Hiccup au)

Broken Wings

Sunburn

#HTTYD #how to train your dragon #httyd fanfiction #hictooth #httyd fic recs #fic recs #Anon #Thank you for asking

121 notes · View notes

crispyjenkins · 4 years ago

Note

For the character ask, just for some variety, Ed Elric & Roy Mustang ;)

bats, you absolutely spoil me (questions from this post)

uhhhh the only consistent thing i see him as is demiromantic and some sort of ace

Ed/Winry has been my otp since.... before i knew what an otp was. i’ve had the joy of a sexuality/gender experience where i went from hella vibing with winry to hella vibing with ed ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and they’re a het endgame couple that i think was handled/progressed well, so they have a special place in my heart

Riza + Ed hands down, but i’m endlessly amused by Ling + Ed so

Ed/Riza, Ed/Mei, Ed/Envy, Ed/Kimblee (i’m horrified how many fic there are for them??)

AUTISTIC AF. he’s clearly high functioning, but his “genius” with alchemy even before the Gate, his v obvious trigger about his height, his compartmentalisation.... all very spectrum. al’s spectrum too, but got all the social skills

“Maybe life has to equal trade. Maybe you can give up all you’ve got and get nothing back. Even if I can’t prove it, I have to try.” (or: “Good think I’m so little.”)

oh god uh focussing so long on something that he’s not sure who he is without it

so many anime reactions make me want to curl up, but ed being especially loud and shortsighted makes me muy uncomfy

i suppose he’s not REALLY a problematic fave, but he’s not really a cinnamon roll either. maybe a spicy mango roll.

Roy

mostly attracted to women, but not completely straight. he doesn’t bother thinking about it more than that

Roy/Riza, if done right and i wasn’t 100% happy with their canon end, but i also friend-ship the fuck outta them and they’re that couple that it sort of doesn’t matter what sort of relationship they have, they just love each other a whole feckin lot, and that’s enough for them

Riza + Roy ¯\_(ツ)_/¯, Maes + Roy, Alex Armstrong + Roy (underutilised big brother/little brother dynamic, where they both think they’re the big brother 😂)

Roy/Any of the Homunculi, Roy/Maes

knows a bunch of like scoundrel-type skills like picking locks and grifting and card tricks and slight of hand, because his “sisters” would teach him stuff during downtime or to keep him busy as a kid. he doesn’t tend to tell people, both as secret weapon, but also in an attempt to distance himself from that world for political reasons (and to protect madam christmas’ girls from association with him)

“How are you supposed to support me from below, now?”

i don’t actually identify with much specifically from roy hmm.... maybe i’ll say i appreciate and admire his loyalty and genuine love for his team

his misogyny especially in early omake strips, the whole miniskirt thing, altho i also get this is an exaggeration as part of the character he’s made for himself for the military

uhhhh i’m gonna go with bread pudding on this one too

#cj answers #not star wars #batsutousai #ask game

7 notes · View notes

lantur · 4 years ago

Text

royai week 2020: day one, “letter”

summary: It’s a running joke in the office that even if Hawkeye were to be shot at her desk, she would put together a complete and professional memo, date, time, and subject line and all, before calling a medic for assistance. Re: Request for medical leave, effective immediately.

Or: Roy and Riza exchange a series of memos on November 18, 1910.

rated: e for everybody

tags: partial epistolary format, pre-canon

words: 3642 | read on ao3

Roy receives the invitation on the third Wednesday in November. It has been slipped in with several memos from Grumman’s office. The invitation to the annual Central Officers’ Ball is printed on the finest stationery he has ever seen - heavy ivory card-stock with golden trim and deep emerald green lettering. He takes in the details with a single glance. The last Saturday of December, at Central Command. Six in the evening. Formal attire. Dinner and dancing.

He has barely spent any time in Central since being posted to East City Command and promoted to Lieutenant Colonel. Frankly, it’s surprising that he even scored an invite. Grumman must have had something to do with it. In the midst of one of their chess games earlier this autumn, the Lieutenant General had been musing about some of the connections made at the Officers’ Ball some decades ago, and how helpful those connections were in advancing his career. Everything you want in life is a relationship away, Mustang, Grumman advised, before putting him in checkmate.

Roy smiles, folds the invitation in half, and tucks it back into its envelope.

He tears off a sheet of memo paper and begins to write.

Date: Nov. 18, 1910

Time: 3:15 PM

To: Hawkeye

From: Mustang

Re: Svensson (New Optain)

Reviewed Svensson peer interviews. You may strike him from the list due to reported issues with temperament. Proceed with followup on Nilson.

Postscript: Please clear your social calendar on the last Saturday of December.

Date: November 18, 1910

Time: 3:30 PM

To: Lt. Col. Mustang

From: Second Lt. Hawkeye

Re: Svensson (New Optain)

Svensson has been removed from the list of contenders. Nilson interviews are attached.

Postscript: Schedule is open on the last Saturday of December as requested, though I would not recommend attempting to interview a potential candidate so close to the New Year. Most individuals will be traveling to see family at that time.

Date: Nov. 18, 1910

Time: 4:30 PM

To: Hawkeye

From: Mustang

Re: Nilson

Nilson appears promising. Thank you for being proactive on completing these interviews and transcriptions in advance.

Postscript: We will not be attempting to interview Nilson on the twenty-sixth of December. You will be accompanying me to the annual Central Officers’ Ball. Expect to leave East City by late morning of the twenty-sixth. We’ll return on the morning of the twenty-seventh.

Date:

Time:

To:

From:

Re:

Lt. Col., you may have misunderstood the purpose of this event. The Central Officers’ Ball is a social event, not a professional meeting. The plus one that officers receive is intended to be filled by a spouse, partner, or date, not a member of one’s unit. I am sure that you will have no difficulty finding a suitable companion.

Roy throws a discreet glance over to Hawkeye’s desk. She’s sitting up straight, telephone held to her ear, undoubtedly making further inquiries about the next candidate on their list. The Second Lieutenant looks as calm and composed as ever, and had been perfectly collected while dropping off the memo at his desk. It’s all a sharp contradiction to the empty memo lines on the sheet before him.

Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye never leaves a memo line unfilled. Only Falman is as attentive to detail as she is. It’s not unusual for Hawkeye to chastise Breda and Havoc - not to mention him - for poorly composed or incomplete memos. The purpose of a memo is to share information, as well as to keep a record of communications, she has lectured them, a dozen times. If any fields are missing, you’re providing your fellow colleagues with an unclear picture of the situation and opening the door to any number of miscommunications. It’s a running joke in the office that even if Hawkeye were to be shot at her desk, she would put together a complete and professional memo, date, time, and subject line and all, before calling a medic for assistance. Re: Request for medical leave, effective immediately.

Roy twirls his pen through his fingers, and he can’t help but grin.

Date: Nov. 18, ‘10

Time: 5 PM

To: Hawkeye

From: Mustang

Re: Incomplete memorandum

Hawkeye, I regret that I must reprimand you for the memo that you delivered to my desk earlier this afternoon. Several fields were missing, including date, time, address information, and subject line. This could have opened the door to any number of miscommunications, or even provided your colleagues with an unclear picture of the situation.

Postscript: You said you would follow me “into hell” but you refuse to come with me to the Central Officer’s Ball? I’m not sure what that says about your conviction - or if you just think the ball will be worse than hell itself.

Hawkeye reads the memo at her desk and looks so momentarily wounded that Roy feels sorry for her. He grabs another sheet of memo paper, scribbles a few lines, and delivers it to her desk before she can even pick up a pen to respond to his first note.

Date:

Time:

To:

From:

Re: Disregard previous memo

A civilian would not be an appropriate companion for this event. It is a mission-critical operation, not a mere social engagement. I need somebody sharp and perceptive at my side to assist with evaluating the individuals we meet, most of whom will be members of senior staff. I require a second set of eyes to pick up on existing social networks and spot any opportunities for suitable connections that could help with my advancement. I can think of no better set of eyes than yours.

Date: November 18, 1910

Time: 5:15 PM

To: Lt. Col. Mustang

From: Second Lt. Hawkeye

Re: Incomplete memorandum

I extend my sincere apologies for the incomplete memorandum earlier this afternoon, Lt. Col. It will not happen again.

As the event on the twenty-sixth of December is mission-critical, I will be happy to accompany you. Any guidance that you can provide on dress code would be much appreciated.

Riza works steadily at her desk. Roy surveys her for a few long moments, resting the top of his pen against his chin thoughtfully.

She notices his scrutiny and deliberately angles her chair so that all he can see is the back of her head.

Date: 11-18-10

Time: 5:30 PM

To: Hawkeye

From: Mustang

Re: Dress code

Formal attire. Don’t fret too much about it. You’ll look stunning beautiful gorgeous nice no matter what you wear.

We’ll discuss further as we approach the operation.

Riza blushes faintly when she receives the memo. She folds it twice, into a tiny square, and then tucks it into her pocket, before proceeding to his desk and standing at attention. “Is that all for today, sir?”

Roy leans back in his chair and gives her his most disarming smile. Riza’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’re dismissed, Second Lieutenant. Enjoy your evening.”

Roy feels oddly cheerful for the rest of the night.

Date: December 25, 1910

Time: 11:15 AM

To: Hawkeye

From: Mustang

Re: Grumman meeting reschedule

Yes, you can go ahead and reschedule my meeting with Grumman to 2 PM today. We’ll push the Smith meeting back an hour.

Postscript: I’ll pick you up at your place at 11 AM tomorrow.

Date: December 25, 1910

Time: 11:30 AM

To: Lt. Col. Mustang

From: Second Lt. Hawkeye

Re: Grumman meeting schedule

The changes to your schedule have been made. Please be sure to review the files that Smith sent over prior to your meeting with him at four.

Postscript: Do you plan on driving? I can book train tickets for us today.

Date:

Time:

To:

From:

Re:

Yes, I plan on driving. You really didn’t have to look so alarmed when you read my earlier note. I’ll let you choose what we listen to on the radio, if that helps.

Date: December 25, 1910

Time: 12:30 PM

To: Lt. Col. Mustang

From: Second Lt. Hawkeye

Re: Tomorrow

I suppose it does, sir. I’ll bring coffee for the road.

Roy looks up from the memo and grins at Hawkeye. His Second Lieutenant gives the towering stack of paperwork on his desk a meaningful look, but her lips quirk up in a hint of a smile.

Riza is, uncharacteristically, two minutes late on the morning of the twenty-sixth. At two minutes past eleven, she emerges from the door of her apartment building, looking somewhat harried, carrying a canvas bag over her shoulder, a long garment bag slung over her arm, and a covered travel mug of coffee in each hand. She’s in civilian clothes, a gray skirt, knee-high boots, and a pink sweater, and Roy admires the look for a moment before he slides out of the driver’s seat to assist her. It’s bitterly cold outside, even with his overcoat, gloves, and scarf on.

“I’m sorry for my lateness, Lieutenant Colonel,” Riza says, the moment she sees him. “It’s just this stupid garment bag - it’s very unwieldy.”

“Two whole minutes, Hawkeye. It’s unforgivable. We’ll be late for the entire event, and blacklisted from all future occasions.” Roy relieves her of the coffee and opens the back door for her, allowing her to unload her canvas bag and the garment bag, which she folds carefully and places beside his neatly pressed dress uniform.

They settle in the front, taking a minute to sip their coffee in comfortable silence, curling their hands around the mugs for warmth. “No one makes coffee like you do.” Roy breathes in the steam, savoring the scent.

Riza shrugs modestly. “It’s just a bit of cinnamon and brown sugar stirred in with the cream, sir. There’s nothing to it.”

She’s eyeing the radio, set to the monotonous sounds of East City Public Radio, and Roy sighs. It’s an age-old battle between them, going back to a happier, simpler time, years ago, when they were both living under Berthold Hawkeye’s roof. “Go ahead and change it.”

Riza puts on a jazz station without argument. The roads between East City and Central are unusually empty today, and Roy delights in the ability to go fast, the music in the background, the scent of coffee lingering in the air, one of his two closest friends at his side. Even though she isn’t nearly as thrilled with the ability to drive fast as he is.

“What’s in the garment bag, Hawkeye?” Roy glances over at her. “I almost offered to come shopping with you. I thought I could pass on some of the sartorial insights I’ve learned after growing up with so many sisters, but then I realized that might be seen as inappropriate.”

“No, sir. You don’t say.”

Roy grins at the deadpan. “Insubordination, Second Lieutenant,” he replies, not meaning a word of it.

Riza settles herself into a more comfortable position in the passenger seat. “It’s a lovely dress, if I do say so myself, Lieutenant Colonel. Tangerine orange silk, sleeveless, fitted through the bodice to the knees, and flaring out from the knees to ankles. There’s a two-foot long train as well.”

Roy shoots his Second Lieutenant an appalled look, and she gives him a tiny, smug smile.

They book neighboring rooms at Central’s nicest hotel, just down the street from Central Command. It’s four by the time they check in, and they disappear into their own rooms at once to get ready. Roy takes a drink from the mini-bar in his room - just a small one, just to calm his nerves - before going through the routine of shaving, showering, getting dressed, slicking his hair back. By the time he’s finished, he can barely recognize the man in the mirror.

Roy leaves his room with the intention of finding Riza at the hotel bar for a pre-mission briefing. Instead, they both step out of their rooms at the same time, locking their doors behind them, and for a moment, Roy can’t do anything but stare. Finally, he recovers, raising an eyebrow at her. “Tangerine orange?”

Riza smooths her hands down the skirt of her dress somewhat self-consciously. It’s a silken fabric, high-necked, sleeveless, fitted close to her chest and waist, the skirt flaring out from the waist as it falls to the ground. It’s green - not the true Amestris green, but a dark, shimmering emerald green. The color is a striking contrast to her hair and her amber earrings. “Not quite,” she says. “It’s not too much?”

“Not at all. You look lovely, Hawkeye. You could be the First Lady of Amestris.”

The implication of the words hit him the second they leave his mouth. Thankfully, Riza misunderstands. She reaches for his arm, and then curls her hand into a fist, bringing it back to herself somewhat self-consciously. “You don’t think it’s overstepping for me to wear this color? I wouldn’t want to offend Mrs. Bradley.”

“Definitely not,” Roy insists. “Relax. I’ll buy you a drink at the bar to help ease your nerves. Now, come on. We have time for a quick pre-mission meeting before we head over to Central Command.”

The Central Officers’ Ball is exhausting. Roy becomes acquainted and re-acquainted with several dozen high-ranking officers stationed at bases across Amestris. He wears his most charming smile, engages in his wittiest repartee, and constantly watches and listens - not just to the officers he’s talking to, but the people in the vicinity. The Hero of Ishval, men and their wives say, over and over and over again, and his smile never falters.

He has surprisingly little time with Hawkeye. They socialize separately for most of the night - divide and conquer, he had told her, on their drive from East City to Central. Despite the crowds, Roy catches sight of her often, locked in a dance with this or that colonel or general, or conversing quietly with men he recognizes as adjutants of some of the Central Command senior staff. He’s mildly surprised to see that Hawkeye seems to be quite a hit with the younger officers and adjutants, and some of the not-so-young ones, either.

But it shouldn’t be a surprise. Riza has always been someone with intense focus, and when she trains those clear, lovely, amber-colored eyes on a man, listening to him in that calm, intent way she does, it must make him feel like the only man in the room.

Not that he would know.

Hawkeye’s looks certainly don’t hurt, either. Her dress, hair, jewelry, and cosmetics are quite a bit more understated than the other women in attendance, but she’s stunning, regardless. His eyes aren’t the only ones lingering on her tonight. But the other men aren’t her commanding officers, and Roy clears his throat, and finds a group of Brigadier Generals from Central Command to converse with.

Riza appears by his side at the next break in the music, and Roy politely excuses himself from the group. “How has your night been, Hawkeye?” he asks softly, leading her to a more quiet corner.

Riza glances up at him, a satisfied gleam in her eyes. “It’s been very productive, sir. We’ll have a lot to discuss on the drive home.”

Roy can’t help but laugh. “You worked the room even better than I did. If I didn’t know it was you out there, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

Riza accepts a glass from a passing waitress with a nod of thanks, and takes a sip of the champagne. “I’m surprised to hear you say that, Lieutenant Colonel.”

“What can I say, Second Lieutenant? You have certain advantages with this crowd that I don’t.”

“And what would those be, sir?” Riza asks, straight-faced.

“Oh, look, Hawkeye,” Roy says, suddenly very interested in the waiter moving past them. “Can I interest you in some canapes?”

The canapes are delicious. They share a savory biscotti, and when the orchestra resumes, Roy nods to the center of the ballroom. “It’s the last dance. Shall we?”

“I--” Riza hesitates, evidently taken by surprise. “I suppose that’s all right.”

Now, that’s the Riza Hawkeye he knows and--

Roy grins, and immediately suppresses the rest of the sentence. “Ah, Second Lieutenant.” He rests a hand over his heart, feigning injury. “The enthusiastic response that every man dreams of.”

Riza places her hand on his arm with a small, resigned sigh. It’s the same sound she makes when she looks him dead in the eye in the office after telling him to stop procrastinating on his work, and adds that she should be paid more. Roy leads her to the floor, and he takes her hand, placing his other hand on her back, as Riza rests her hand on his arm.

He realizes, too late, that this is the first time he’s touched her like this since the weeks immediately after Ishval.

Since you maimed her, his mind elaborates helpfully, and Roy fights the urge to wince.

He doesn’t feel the scars underneath the silken fabric of Riza’s dress. And it’s not like the fabric is thick. Over the past year, he’s wondered how the burns have healed, even though the ease of Riza’s movements, their natural grace, seem to indicate a complete recovery.

Roy glances down at her, worried, wondering if this is the reason she had hesitated to accept the offer to dance. If Riza is at all troubled, she shows no indication of it. Her hand is relaxed in his own, her expression calm. She looks genuinely at ease, for the first time tonight. They’re close enough that he can breathe in the scent of her hair. Vanilla, the same shampoo she has used for all the years he’s known her.

So Roy tries to appreciate the music, the lovely sounds of the forty-piece orchestra. He tries to glance around at the men surrounding them and identify which ones he and Riza hadn’t conversed with tonight. He tries to think about anything except how good and how right it feels to have his subordinate in his arms.

He can see the Fuhrer and his wife through the crowd. Fuhrer Bradley holds his wife close, resting his chin on top of her head. A rare, tender gesture, one that appears incongruous from such a fierce-looking man. A man who had signed off on the slaughter of the Ishvalan people. The First Lady is wearing a dress remarkably similar to Riza’s, though it’s violet and not dark green.

Even with the music, Roy can hear the soft swish of Riza’s skirt as they move. The warm glow of the low lamplight catches her hair, her eyes, her amber drop earrings.

“The green was a good choice,” Roy murmurs, even though he shouldn’t. Just like he shouldn’t imagine the two of them ten years from now, standing in the Fuhrer and the First Lady’s place.

“Thank you, sir.” Riza’s voice is barely audible.

There will be no extravagant holiday parties for them. His tenure as Fuhrer will last only as long as it takes to strip the power away from the military and hand it back to the people. If there’s any justice in this world, his tenure will end with a firing squad.

The music comes to an end, and they release one another’s hands.

They say their farewells, lingering to socialize a bit more with the potential new allies formed tonight. It’s midnight before they head back to their hotel, and they slump back against the wall of the elevator in exhaustion. Roy’s eyelids feel heavy, his head aches slightly, and he is overly conscious of Riza’s shoulder, a few inches from his own. He’s so used to seeing her shoulders covered by the dark blue wool of her uniform coat that it takes an effort not to stare whenever he sees her in civilian clothes.

It would be so easy to lean into her. He sees that Riza is tired too, in the sharp, impatient movements of her hands as she hitches up her skirt enough to pull off her high heels, right there in the elevator. But he doesn’t, just like he doesn’t stare at her legs.

“Questionable, Hawkeye,” Roy comments, as they make their way down the hall, back to their rooms. Riza’s steps don’t click on the marble floors as they have all night. “These floors may look spotless, but I wouldn’t want my bare feet all over them before getting into bed.”

“That’s what the soaking tub is for, sir,” Riza replies, and Roy is momentarily distracted by the mental image of her slipping off the ballgown, the emerald green silk falling to the floor.

They come to a stop in front of both of their rooms and turn to face one another. “Thank you, Second Lieutenant,” Roy says. “For accompanying me.”

“I was happy to do so, Lieutenant Colonel, despite my initial reluctance. I think we worked well together.”

“Do you want to come in, to discuss the connections we made tonight?” Roy asks, and he can’t bear to look her in the eyes. He stares at a spot just above her head instead. “I’ll mix you a drink.”

Riza looks at him steadily. She swallows, and Roy watches the movement of her throat, and imagines running his fingers through her hair, gently pulling her head back, kissing her neck. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir.”

The worst thing, by far, is that he’s not imagining the reluctance in her voice.

“Of course.” Roy forces his most carefree smile. “Sleep well, Hawkeye.”

“You too, Lieutenant Colonel.”

They retreat into their separate rooms. Roy closes the door behind him, locks it, and leans against the door heavily. He runs his fingers through his hair, mussing the impeccably slicked-back style, and all the breath leaves his body in a sigh.

He stays there, for a long while. He thinks of Riza, in her room. And finally, Roy makes his way to the mini-bar to pour himself a drink.

#royaiweek20 #royai #royai fanfic

35 notes · View notes

littlestarofthewest · 4 years ago

Photo

Title: Meeting Miss Morgan | Word Count: 3289 | Rating (for entire fic): 18+!!!

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female OC | Chapter: 04 of 08 | Link to Masterlist

Arthur knows what he's doing is stupid. In fact, he is stupid. He got up even earlier than usual, taking care of the firewood. Julie prepares it most of the time, but when she briefly mentioned in conversation that she doesn't particularly like doing it, Arthur immediately had the urge to do it for her.

He likes to think that he's just trying to help out around the farm, but after the pencils and the whole trouble Arthur went through with Jasper, he can't pretend that what he's doing has nothing to do with Julie. Somehow he always ends up helping her in particular.

Ever since she kissed him on the cheek, she wanders around in his mind when he's not busy thinking about something else. Having the chance to hold her in his arms didn't make it any easier. In fact, he feels like he's years younger, even more of an idiot, and stupid enough to think that she might like him as more than a friend, if at all.

Julie's a nice person. Doing sweet things comes naturally to her, and has nothing to do with Arthur, but he still can't stop hoping. He's chopping wood and buys a new shirt like a changed man, as if he wasn't a killer, wanted outlaw, and complete failure.

Arthur finishes the last logs with a sigh, knowing full well that his day won't get any better. With some tools, he heads out to one end of Mr. Henderson's property, beginning the work that will probably take him the whole week, building a new fence.

On the one hand, it's a good thing that he can stay away from the stables for a while. That way, he at least can't embarrass himself in front of Julie. On the other hand, he has a lot of time to think.

For the last two days, he's been remembering his ride with Julie. They didn't talk much, but Julie kept smiling at Arthur, so abundantly happy that she was finally able to ride Jasper. It was a joy to watch her race over open fields, her blonde hair flying in the wind. She seemed to glow in a golden shine under the warm summer sun, so free and unburdened that watching her made Arthur's heart ache.

Fuelled with those memories, Arthur keeps working on the fence, trying to neither think back to his old life nor imagine the future. All that matters is hitching up posts, one after the other until the day is gone.

He makes good progress until he hears a rider approach. Arthur's heart drops when Julie rides up to him on Jasper. "Hello, Arthur."

Arthur tips his hat, pulling it deeper into his face. "Jules."

She hops off the horse and strides over to him with a bundle in her hand, her eyes wandering over the already finished fence. "Let me guess, you didn't take any breaks."

Arthur opens his mouth, but Julie shakes her head and takes his hammer away before throwing it into the grass. Then she grabs his hand and pulls him to the nearby woods, making him sit down on a fallen tree in the shadow of a few branches.

"I had time to make something to eat for you since the firewood was already done," Julie says, raising a single brow at Arthur while unpacking the bundle in her hand.

"Was it?" Arthur says, looking out over the farmland in front of them.

Julie pushes a bowl with stew into his hand and tops it off with a thick slice of bread. "It's cold but better than nothing."

"Thank you," Arthur says, although he's not sure how he's supposed to eat with butterflies in his stomach.

Julie is sitting way too close, her leg brushing against his. Arthur would move, but then he'd fall off the tree. Instead, he shovels a spoonful of stew into his mouth. That should keep Julie from asking him any questions.

"You know that you don't have to do everything, right?" she asks.

Arthur chews, but Julie keeps looking at him, waiting for an answer. He clears his throat, trying to come up with an excuse. "I don't mind the firewood. It's quiet work, relaxing. Just like building a fence."

"You must have had quite the excitement before when you actually like doing these boring things."

"Enough for a lifetime," Arthur says, knowing that he's avoiding her unspoken question. It's not fair to keep it a secret from Julie who he truly is, but the thought of her thinking less of him twists Arthur's stomach into knots.

He forces down more stew, and maybe Julie takes the hint or just wants for him to eat, but she stays quiet, looking up into the trees. They sit there until Arthur is done eating, and Julie fetches a bottle of water for him as well, scolding him for not bringing one along in the first place.

Arthur thanks her again, trying to put the bottle into his bag to bring it along. He curses when one side of the bag tears, and his journal drops to the ground. It falls open, and Arthur hurries to pick it up, but Julie is quicker than him. Her eyes grow big as she looks at the page, and Arthur's heart stops, thinking about the things he recently wrote about her.

"I thought you only wrote in this," Julie says, "I didn't know you were drawing, too."

"It's just silly little doodles," Arthur says, hoping that Julie won't turn the page.

"That's the whole farm from the viewpoint up on that ridge," Julie says with wonder in her voice. She moves a few steps before turning around, holding the journal up against the horizon. "Arthur, that's incredible. Where did you learn to draw like this?"

"My pa," Arthur begins, realizing too late that he was thinking about Hosea and horrible guilt consumes him.

"Your father was an artist?"

"No, what I meant was that he gave me my first journal when I was 15," Arthur says, the memory weighing heavy on him. "I've been trying to draw whatever I saw since then."

"Well, then he's a good father. You're really talented," Julie says. She closes the journal with such care as if it was a precious relic before handing it over. "I've meant to draw a few places around here, but somehow I never get around to it."

"How come?" Arthur asks, wishing he could see some of Julie's drawings.

"Mrs. Henderson would say I work too much," Julie sighs, "and Mr. Henderson is always concerned about me. A young woman alone on the road? Better not. There's a beautiful pond up in those woods, but there's a road going past with many travelers and stagecoaches, so there are sometimes bandits in the woods as well. Mr. Henderson would kill me if I went there on my own."

"He's not wrong," Arthur says. He met enough outlaws in his time who went far beyond thieving and killing. Some of them were so bad, you wished they would have killed their victims. "There are some bad people out there."

Julie studies Arthur for a moment as if to ask if he's one of them, but then she walks over to Jasper. "I better let you work now, or Mr. Henderson will have my head for distracting you."

"Thank you for the food," Arthur says again. After all, he can't tell Julie that she's already distracting him anyway.

"Somebody has to take care of you," Julie says with a smile before riding off, leaving Arthur with a warm feeling in his chest.

------

The next morning, Arthur walks out of his cabin, finding a fresh water bottle and a tightly wrapped package in front of his door. He doesn't have to look inside to know what it is. Julie must have gotten up even earlier than usual to prepare some food for him. Arthur picks it up, finding a little note tucked into one of the folds. It says, "Take some breaks."

Smiling, Arthur puts the package in his saddlebag and rides out to continue his work on the fence. This time, he doesn't mind those thoughts of Julie dance around in his head. He can't change her as much as he can't change himself, so he might as well enjoy her kindness, no matter how undeserved it might be.

When noon comes around, Arthur takes Julie's advice to have a break. He unpacks the food package, finding cold roast, bread, and berries. Sitting in the shadow of a huge tree, Arthur savors his meal. Somehow, it tastes so much better than anything he's ever eaten before. He's about to pack up when he finds a piece of paper sticking out from under his plate.

Arthur pulls it out, his eyes growing wide. It's a drawing of him on the Mustang riding up to the stables. Despite sketching other people all the time, Arthur has never seen a picture of himself. It's like looking into the mirror, and he's impressed how well Julie can draw.

Wondering why Julie picked this specific scene, Arthur's stomach does a little summersault when he remembers what happened right afterward. Closing his eyes, Arthur can imagine how Julie's touch felt on his skin, but then he quickly gets up. He can't risk to drift off into these kinds of phantasies.

Instead, Arthur carefully folds up the drawing and puts it in his breast pocket before riding out to town. Mr. Henderson asked him to run some errands, and he might be able to find a little thank you gift for Julie. At least that's what Arthur thought.

He's done with Mr. Henderson's business in no time, but even after an hour, Arthur can't find anything to give to Julie. He can't exactly gift her a sack of rice, but at the same time, anything more personal could give her the wrong - or worse - the right idea about Arthur's growing feelings for her. In the end, he decides that a heartfelt thank you has to do.

On his way back, Arthur has another idea, though. He's on the road Julie talked about the day before, so Arthur steers his horse into the trees to find the pond. It takes him a little going back and forth, but he knows what Julie has been talking about once he sees it.

It's a beautiful place with high trees and lots of flowers that surround the small body of water. Birds are singing, and when Arthur comes closer, a few deer quickly jump away and disappear. Letting his horse roam free, Arthur walks around the pond two times to find the right spot before settling down with his journal.

Usually, Arthur's quick with his drawings. He always had other things to do or was with someone who didn't appreciate him taking forever to sketch an abandoned church or oddly shaped tree. Today, Arthur takes his time. He tries to capture how the sun sparkles on the water, and painstakingly draws all the single petals on most of the flowers. He only rushes to finish the picture when the sun begins to set.

Looking at his finished work in the dim light, Arthur remembers Julie's words about him being talented, and for the first time in a long while, he feels proud about something that he did. Folding the paper as carefully as possible, he puts it to Julie's drawing in his pocket and hurries back to the farm so he won't miss dinner.

At the house, Julie greets him with a lovely smile, and Arthur's heart skips a beat once again. Thinking about giving her the drawing later makes him so nervous he can barely follow the conversation. When they're done eating, Julie heads outside to play her guitar, and Mr. Henderson holds Arthur back to talk about work.

Arthur nods along until Mr. Henderson finally gives him free. Outside, Arthur finds Julie sitting on the steps that lead up to the door. Her guitar is lying next to her, but she's not playing.

"No music tonight?" Arthur asks.

"I felt like watching the stars," Julie says before turning to Arthur and patting the floor next to her. "Come sit with me."

Arthur swallows a lump in his throat, feeling like he might pass out. He can't remember the last time he's been so nervous. For a moment, he thinks about making up an excuse to go, but his feet act on their own, carrying him all too willingly over to Julie. He sits down next to her, leaving generous space between them, but Julie scoots closer, pointing into the sky.

"I love that one," she says, and Arthur follows the line of her outstretched arm to a big star that shines particularly bright.

"It's pretty," Arthur says, looking at Julie. She turns her head, and he tries desperately to come up with something else to say. "Thank you for the food. And the drawing. You're way more talented than I am."

Julie's cheeks gain a little color, and she waves her hand. "Like you said, just silly little drabbles."

Arthur thinks about the picture in his breast pocket, and it takes all his courage to take it out and hand it to Julie. "I thought about what you said when I was heading back from town. You probably could have done a better job, though."

Julie unfolds the paper and gasps before staring at Arthur. "You drew the pond?"

"I gave it a shot," Arthur says, rubbing his neck. Now that Julie is looking at it, he begins to see mistakes he didn't notice before, and he feels he should have taken more time to get the picture right.

"It's beautiful," Julie says, her eyes wandering over the page. "The details in the flowers. The water. This must have taken you forever."

Arthur shrugs. "Maybe when I'm done with the fence, we can ride up there together, and you can draw it yourself. Or any of the other places you wanted to draw."

Julie looks back up at Arthur, a shine in her eyes that makes his skin tickle. "You would do that?"

Arthur's not quite sure how they ended up so close to each other, and he knows he should just say yes, or maybe nod, but he's always been an idiot. "For you," he says, his voice almost giving out on him.

He moves even closer to Julie, knowing full well that he shouldn't. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but then she leans in, and Arthur closes the distance between them, his lips brushing against Julie's. Arthur's heart feels like it might jump out of his chest any second, and he wants nothing more than to hold Julie close, but then the door screeches behind them.

They move apart as if hit by lightning, and only seconds later, Mrs. Henderson comes out of the house. "Aren't you going to play, Julie? I really feel like-"

She stops herself when her eyes fall on the paper in Julie's hand. "Oh, my dear, that's lovely. When did you draw that?"

Julie throws a quick glance over to Arthur before handing the drawing to Mrs. Henderson. "I didn't. Arthur drew it today."

Mrs. Henderson's mouth falls open, and she looks back and forth between Arthur and the drawing. "Well, look at you, Mr. Morgan. Aren't you full of surprises? Who knows what else we might find the longer you stay with us."

She can't know it, but her words cut deep, and Arthur gets to his feet. "I think I better go to sleep. I want to get an early start on that fence."

"You two make quite the couple," Mrs. Henderson sighs, running a hand over Julie's hair. "The name, the drawing, and nothing but work in your heads. The two of you really need to have some fun for a change."

Julie lets out a muffled noise, and Arthur wishes he could just melt into the ground. Instead, he taps his hat. "Goodnight."

He turns around, walking away so quickly that he doesn't know if the two women respond. Arthur's whole body seems to fill up with rage, and he wishes he could give himself a good beating.

When he left the gang, Arthur swore that he's done with making stupid mistakes, yet here he is, well on his way to hurt a nice, young woman, and maybe ruining more lives. The surprises he's filled with are danger, sorrow, and regret. Neither Julie nor the Henderson's deserve any of that. If he wants to stay, he has to get himself under control.

--------

Pretending to be busy with the fence, Arthur manages to stay away from Julie for two days, and then he jumps at the chance when Mr. Henderson asks him to bring one of the horses he sold to its buyer. That way, he gets to stay away for three more days, trying to sort out his feelings.

At first, he goes with booze but concludes that that's just one more mistake, considering how he behaves when drunk. The trouble is that Arthur can't sleep when he's sober. He's tossing and turning, only drifting off for a few minutes before waking up in a cold sweat, guilt consuming him over and over again.

By the time Arthur gets back to the farm, he's so tired he can barely walk straight and doesn't remember the last time he ate. Still, he brings his horse into the stable, doing his best to take care of it. It's already dark, and Arthur hoped he could sneak into his cabin without anybody noticing. Of course, he has no such luck.

"Arthur?" Julie asks behind him, and Arthur does his best to stand up straight when he turns around to her.

"Yes, it's me. I just got back."

Julie takes a step closer, worry in her eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Just a little tired," Arthur says with a forced smile. "It's been a long ride."

He's not sure if he actually sways at those words, but it sure feels that way. Julie comes even closer, studying his face. "A little tired? You're dead on your feet. What's wrong?"

Arthur knows that he won't get out of this so quickly, so he shrugs. "Haven't slept well for the last few days. I'll be fine."

He waits for Julie to scold him, but she just takes his hand and leads him into the next empty stall. It's filled with fresh hay, and Julie forces him to sit down. "I'll be right back," she says, her voice low.

Arthur wishes he could go, but he's not sure he could get up on his feet before Julie's back. Instead, he shrugs out of his jacket and puts it behind his head like a makeshift pillow. He's staring at the wall on the other side when Julie appears in front of him. She puts a blanket over him and then sits down with her guitar on her legs.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asks, but Julie only shakes her head.

"Just close your eyes."

She starts playing, and Arthur does as she says. He's nervous with her closeby, and he wants to apologize, but he's not sure how to even get the words out. "I'm sorry, Jules," he finally manages to say.

"Sleep, Arthur," Julie says, her voice warm and comfortable like the blanket over him. "You'll be fine."

It takes a while until Arthur can focus on the music, but then a nice heavy feeling settles in his stomach, the notes carrying him over into a better world, a world where he doesn't have to apologize for liking someone.

#my writing

20 notes · View notes

aquietwritingcorner · 4 years ago

Text

Author: RealityBreakGirl/aquietlearningcorner/scentedbygunpowder Word Count: 1,049 Prompt: FMA Big Bang 2020 Characters: Riza Hawkeye, Roy Mustang, Jean Havoc Pairing: Royai Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family Chapter: Epilogue of 5 Summary: Post-PD. A drive to look for more of Berthold Hawkeye’s research sends Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye, and Jean Havoc back to Hawkeye’s childhood home. But although the years have faded the wounds of Hawkeye’s heart, the embers still exist. This trip, ordered by Mustang, threatens to flame them back to life. With Hawkeye and Mustang at odds with each other, and an unknown but heavy history hanging overhead, Havoc isn’t sure what this research mission will mean to the future of his commanding officers.

Prologue || Part I || Part II || Part III || Epilogue AO3 || ff.net

______________________________________________________________

Epilogue

“It’s good to be home, isn’t it?”

Hawkeye had to smile at Mustang’s words, even as she removed her keys from the lock. This was, technically, her apartment, but just the idea that he would consider it home as well gave her a warm feeling inside.

“It is,” she said, sitting the bag she was carrying on the table. Mustang carried her luggage for her, and around her feet Hayate pranced, demanding her attention. “Thank you for going with me to get Hayate,” she said.

“It was no problem,” Mustang said with a shrug. “I wanted to get the pulse of the city back anyway.”

“Does it ever leave you?” she teased as she bent to pick up Hayate.

Mustang grinned at her. “No.”

Hawkeye laughed, but then turned her attention to the dog in her arms. “Now how am I supposed to get everything unpacked when you insist on being in my arms?” she asked him. Hayate merely panted at her, stretching up to lick her nose, his tail wagging.

“I can do it,” Mustang said, already sliding past her to make his way to her bedroom, her carpetbag in his hand. “I know where your things go anyway.”

“Thank you,” Hawkeye responded, already heading over to her couch with Hayate. “I appreciate it. I’d like to spend some time with my puppy. I’ve missed him.”

“Can he still be called a puppy?” Mustang’s voice called out from her bedroom.

“He’ll always be my puppy,” she retorted.

Hawkeye heard him laugh, and then heard the sound of drawers opening and closing as he put her things away. Hawkeye baby talked Hayate and gave him scratches in all of his favorite places while Hayate, for his part, was quite happy. She took in a breath and just relaxed, hands lovingly petting her dog, and ears listening to the sounds of Mustang putting her dirty clothes in the hamper, sitting her boots by her bed, and putting her extra ammo away.

There was a pause, though, and after a moment Mustang’s footsteps came back down the hall. He emerged, looking at her with a bit of concern and curiosity. “Riza?” he asked, the bag in one hand, and something else in the other. “Why did you bring this back?” In his hand was the worn yellow rabbit, and he seemed rather surprised about it. “I doubt it was as padding for the chemicals, or a chew toy for Hayate.

“Oh,” she said, looking at the toy with a soft smile. “I don’t know. It was an impulse. It felt right. He’s helped me through a lot, you know? I thought he deserved to be a part of my life now.”

Mustang kept the rabbit in his hand, but sat the bag down, the bottles in it softly clinking. He sat beside her on her couch, angled to where he could see her clearly. “You had him on the roof, didn’t you?” he asked.

Hawkeye returned his gaze and nodded. “Yes. It was habit, and I grabbed him, took him with me. Honestly, even after all these years, he was still comforting.”

Mustang’s eyes moved to focus on the rabbit, his brows drawn together and fingers lightly stroking it. “Riza… I… I’m sorry. I didn’t handle all of this well, and you suffered for it. I shouldn’t have sprung the idea on you in the office. I should have waited and talked things through with you first.”

Hawkeye shook her head, her hands slowing on scratching Hayate as she focused in on Mustang. “No. I should have trusted you. I know you’re not like that. I know that you weren’t looking to gain power just to have power. I should have looked beyond what I felt.”

“But in a way I was,” he said, head snapping back up to her. “I wanted something that gave me an edge over our enemies. I wanted more power, and I wanted to be able to use it against those that were a threat. Is that really any better than I was years ago?”

Hawkeye considered his words for a moment. “You wanted that power to do good. Just like when I gave it to you all those years ago,” she said, seeing the guilt creeping up on him. “But I will admit, it didn’t settle right with me. I didn’t think it was the right thing to do. I wasn’t sure what I would do if we found anything, but I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of you using it.”

Mustang let out a breath and his eyes turned down to that stuffed rabbit again. “I’m sorry, Riza.” He said. “I’m sorry. We should have talked it over.”

“I’m sorry too,” she said, and he looked up at her in surprise. “I let my anger, hurt and fear get in the way of us talking.” She was gently combing her fingers through Hayate’s fur at the moment, needing to do something with them. “I felt like I was being used again, and instead of talking about it that night, I froze you out instead. I was afraid of what you’d become if you did find something, and so I cloaked it all behind anger and didn’t talk to you. If I had, then perhaps this trip would have been easier.”

Mustang shook his head. “Seems we both have things we need to work on,” he said. He reached forward, carefully putting the bunny on her coffee table, then reached an arm around her to pull her to his side. “Next time, I’ll try to consult you before I make decisions.”

She leaned into him, Hayate wiggling around to make himself comfortable on both of their laps. “And I’ll try to be open to talking it through.”

He smiled at her then, the smile that was just for her, full of love, warmth, and most of all, genuine. He kissed her forehead, and she felt her heart swell with love for this man.

“I promise, Riza. Until my dying breath, I’ll walk with you through whatever life brings.”

She closed her eyes, relishing this moment. “I know,” she said. “I know.”

And settled there, on her couch, with her dog in her lap, and the man she loved holding her, Riza Hawkeye felt at peace.

#fmabb #riza hawkeye #Roy Mustang #Fullmetal Alchemist #fma #fma fanfiction #fma fanfic #Fullmetal Alchemist fan fic #fullmetal alchemist fan fiction

9 notes · View notes