Scenario: Approaching you while you pound back drinks at the bar.
He's well dressed and handsome in a classic way. You watch him scan the room whel he enters, thumb idly stroking the side of the chilled glass in your hand. Following his gaze, you realise he's cataloguing the exits before his eyes sweep across the patrons. You notice when he sees you, tracks the way he sees the line of shot glasses by your hand.
You're not sure what catches his attention but suddenly he's approaching your table with even steps. He doesn't sit; doesn't invade your territory.
"That's a bold formation," he comments with a nod to your whiskey shots. Three down and three to go. His voice is low, warm, and you feel it matches his face—especially when you catch the faint edge of a smirk. "Is this a private battle or are reinforcements allowed?"
You arch a brow at the audacity but he just takes his gloves off, slowly, folding them neatly before tucking them into his coat pocket. His eyes are dark as they seem to study you. Something about the way he carries himself tells you he's not just trying to skimp a free drink.
"You're not a local. Central drinks don't go down that fast unless someone's celebrating—or trying to forget."
Impressed, you slide a shot across the table to him, silently inviting him to sit with you. "What makes you think I'm not local?"
You catch the way his brow lifts, intrigued. He sits across from you, angled in a way that makes you feel like the two of you are in your own private bubble rather than a table against the Western wall in a dimly lit bar.
"Well," he begins, swirling the glass. "For one, you're watching the room. Not in a bored way—strategic. Locals don't bother. You're still cataloguing the place."
That felt like a lucky guess to you, and you tell him as much while he downs the shot. He sets the glass back down on the table, upside down, holding two fingers up.
"Second—your boots. Worn in the toe, not the heel. Means you've been walking on unfamiliar ground. Shifting your weight forward. Looking ahead, not settling down."
Your gaze falls to your drink as though you could see your boots through the table. That... was correct, and unbelievable that he had clocked that. You realise he's smiling at you.
It's disarming.
"And third, locals don't make me work for conversation." He cocks his head to the side, his voice inviting as he asks, "So, stranger, what is it you do when you're not being psychologically profiled over whiskey?"
You introduce yourself with a bashful smile, telling him, "I'm between things. Jobs. Cities. Versions of myself." You're not sure you want to get too vulnerable, so you lift your next shot and gesture to him. "Whatever I am, it's nowhere near as interesting as your deductive skills. You a detective or something?"
He leans back, as though reassessing you. Your cheeks warm, realising you must have been too transparent in throwing the mic back to him.
"Roy Mustang. I'm in the military. Intelligence division, among other things. You may have heard of the Flame Alchemist?"
You hadn't.
"Either way, it's my job to know things I probably shouldn't." The smile he wears is sharp for a moment, but his expression softens into something kind. "Between versions of yourself isn't the worst place to be. Means you're still moving."
You barely resist ducking your head, shy. Roy's interesting, and unbelievably charming. You manage to deflect with an impressed, "Military, huh? You must read people like mission reports, then."
Roy lets out a breath through his nose, just shy of a laugh. "Something like that," he says, playing along. "You learn to assess people quickly. Prioritise their emotional volatility. Gauge whether they fold under pressure or light the match."
He very deliberately allows his gaze to flick to the remaining shot at the table before meeting your wide eyes again. It's as though he's reminding you that he hasn't forgotten about your own matchstick mood.
"But reports don't blush."
Immediately, you feel your cheeks light up like it's Christmas.
He's so charming.
"You deflect with compliments. That usually means two things. One: you're not used to people being kind without wanting something. Two: You're deciding whether I'm worth the risk of letting the conversation stay about you."
Your hair stands on end. The last shot burns as it goes down but the way you set the empty glass down on the table feels decisive. He wasn't here to chase shadows and you weren't ready to say goodbye, so you had to play ball, even if that meant you had to be whiskey bold to game.
"Alright, then. What if I let it stay about me?"
Roy doesn't look away. He leans forward and says quietly, and without irony, "Then I stop running my mouth, and I listen."
His words take you by surprise. You'd been anticipating further psychoanalysis, for him to show off his intellect. This didn't feel like a game of wits anymore. You want to open up to him, but you don't know how.
The silence stretches, but he doesn't make a move to break it.
Words failed to fully express how disconnected you'd felt lately, but you finally admit "I'm... trying to figure out if I'm a good person or good at pretending." while staring at the bar over his shoulder.
He waits a moment before speaking. You see him nod, once, in your peripheral.
"That question keeps better men than I awake at night."
His voice is kind, a tinge wry, and you realise you don't need to see it to trust it.
"Let me guess. You do what you have to. You smile when you don't mean it. You say the right thing even when it's not the honest thing. And somewhere along the line, it starts to feel like one big performance and you wonder if you ever really cared in the first place."
You lick your lips as you weigh his words. He inhales slowly, exhaling through his nose.
"I've built my entire life on that calculus." His voice is low, earnest. You meet his eyes in time to see them flick away. "But... here's what I know. Pretending to be good doesn't mean you're a fraud. It means you know what good looks like and you're still aiming for it. People who fake being decent—really fake it—they don't stop to ask themselves questions like that."
You'd never considered it from that angle. It didn't fix the disconnect you've been feeling toward your life, but his words reassure you that it didn't make you a bad person.
He finally looks at you again, steady and gentle.
"And if you want my personal opinion—I've met enough monsters to know you're not one. So if you're pretending, you're doing a damn fine job."
It's not particularly flattering, and yet you flush. You're no match for his charisma.
"You're good at this," You comment, flipping the shot glass with a finger out of a need to move your hands. You're feeling vulnerable. "At knowing what people need to hear. What do you do when it all feels like a performance and you're wondering if you ever cared in the first place?"
You watch as his eyes grow distant, the way he leans back, gaze resting on the glass between your fingers. His posture is still open, so you assume he's choosing his words with precision.
"I compartmentalize. Tell myself the act is necessary. I draw lines and sometimes they hold. Sometimes I look up and realise I've been standing behind the wrong one for years."
This feels like an intimate glimpse into Roy's inner world. You couldn't begin to fathom his experiences with the military, but you felt like you were beginning to see him a little clearer. He's tired, deeply so, but his eyes find yours again and they're warm.
"And then I find something small that reminds me I'm still there, somewhere. Music. A warm drink. Someone who sees through the script. Something real, no matter how fleeting." His voice lowers. Intimate, not performative. "And when that doesn't work, I picture the faces of everyone who's helped me get where I am today, and everyone who's relying on me to make a difference."
Your fingers tap together restlessly, while the faces of your family and loved ones come to mind, the people who believe you're deserving of love, the responsibilities you're running from.
Unable to stop yourself, you ask another question, more personal than the last, but it's the only way you can relate your heart to his.
"How do you stay human in a system that makes you amputate parts of yourself?" You whisper.
Roy doesn't flinch, nor does he tense, but his stillness feels deliberate. The silence prolongs. He works his jaw. You regret opening your mouth.
Finally,
"You don't."
You flinch.
"You amputate to survive. Sometimes for duty. Sometimes for safety. Sometimes because the silence is easier than explaining what they'll never understand."
He reaches out but doesn't breach your territory. His hand sits in no-mans-land, palm up on the table and you're helpless against the compulsion. His fingers are warm and rough against yours, firm as he squeezes.
"But you can't let them take everything."
Your heart flutters. You can't tell if it's the whiskey or something else.
"You hold onto some part of yourself— even if it's tiny, even if it only gets to breathe for five minutes a day, when no one's watching."
There's a heaviness to your chest now, that doesn't immediately dispel when you exhale deeply through your nose. The alcohol is blurring the edges of your thoughts and you're losing your ability to navigate the conversation. Everything feels a little close, and your shoulders are starting to feel heavy.
"I think this might be my five minutes for today," You say with warmth, but your fingers are restless where they tap against the column of your throat.
Roy's gaze lingers on you a beat longer than feels comfortable. You can tell he's reading you, and to your relief, that no longer feels threatening. You allow him to see how tired you're growing. He leans back, allowing you room to breathe.
"That's more than enough,"
You watch as he reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws his wallet, from which he collects a small card. Stock white with bold black lettering. Something giddy bubbles in your stomach as he writes a string of numbers on the back.
"If you ever want another five minutes," he says, sliding it forward, "or just need to talk to someone who won't ask you to be anything but exactly what you are—call."
He smiles at you, a crooked little thing. You glance down at the card before an answering smile curls your lips. This feels like easier territory. You know how to navigate these waters.
"Is that your way of subtly asking for a second date?"
Roy's reaction is instantaneous. Mischief glimmers in his dark eyes and his head tilts to the side.
"I don't ask for second dates— I offer them."
You let out a breathless laugh as his nimble fingers button his coat all the way, smoothing out his collar.
"That so?" You ask, taking the card between your fingers as he stands.
"Take your time," he assures you with one last warm smile. "The world doesn't always give you a second chance, but I do."
Then, with an easy, two-fingered salute, Roy Mustang turns and walks into the night, his coat catching the dim light like a closing curtain.
Scenario: Approaching you while you pound back drinks at the bar.
You don't notice him lingering in the doorway to the backroom of the quaint little bar you've found. It's late, most of the patrons have already left, but you're just getting started. The fourth shot didn't burn as much as the others, which bodes well for your evening. The bartender readies your fifth with a bemused smile. As soon as it's placed in front of you, he makes his move.
He steps out of the shadows with assured grace and orders "his usual", which turns out to be a whiskey served with a playful smile.
He's beautiful. Golden blond spikes that frame his delicate features and baby blue eyes that seemed to glow in the dim lighting. He was lean, but muscular. Like he could take care of himself.
To you, he says "You planning on drinking yourself into a coma, or just killing time?"
You're silent for a moment. Conversation was welcome — especially with him — but you hadn't anticipated any smart remarks or bold comments. Disguising your surprise, you down the next shot before responding with a crooked smile, "I've had worse ideas."
The alcohol is doing its job. The taste is dulling and there's a numbness to your limbs.
He watches you. Not intensely— steadily. Like he's measuring your words over the rim of his glass. You give him space to draw his conclusions about you, bringing the shot glass back to your lips to capture the last stubborn drops clinging to the bottom.
"Yeah," he eventually mumbles, eyes cast down toward his sweating glass. "I guess we all have."
This makes your lips tick up; a kindred soul. You decide to take it easier with the drinks and order yourself a rum and coke, just to do something with your hands.
He shifts, forearms resting on the edge of the bar. There's no immediate follow-up, and you fall into a silence that feels companionable.
Then, much to your delight, he speaks again. Softly, but not without weight.
"You tryin' to forget something, or prove something?"
You buy time to weigh how vulnerable you're willing to get by sipping your drink. He's cute, and you're drunk enough to be a little foolish, but you're not going to bare your heart without payoff. Once your glass touches the polished wood of the bar, you decide to throw the ball in his court instead.
"How about you?" You ask, resting your cheek against your fist.
You watch the way his jaw shifts, the way his gaze lowered to the glass between his hands, still untouched.
"...I don't. Not often. I can't afford to forget."
There's a pinch in his brow. His thumb brushes the rim of his glass. The pause feels final, but he eventually tacks on, "But sometimes it helps quiet the noise."
He turns to you, eyes meeting yours directly. It isn't much, but it's a truth, an admission that something lies beneath the surface.
Your glass catches the low lighting as you lift it in a playful toast. "Not forgetting is a helluva lot harder than it sounds."
Cloud's eyes dart toward your raised glass, then back to your face. After a beat, he lifts his untouched glass in recognition. The bold taste of his whiskey causes his brows to knit together. Cute.
You set your glass down and open up. Not everything. Not the whole mess. You mention a rough place. Words like exhausted, lost track of time, things falling apart faster than I can fix them. You don't play it up. You just tell it.
He listens. No shifting, no darting gaze. He really listens, head slightly tilted, blue eyes focused entirely on you. When you finish, he doesn't respond. Not immediately.
He doesn't rush to fill the silence.
Eventually, he says "That's a lot to carry on your own."
His tone is even and you watch his gaze fall to his drink once again.
"Times like that, the hardest part's just gettin' through the day. Then the next. And the next."
Another silence. Then, awkwardly, but sincerely,
"You're still standing. That counts for something."
The earnest quality of his words catches you off guard and you shift in your seat. You regard yourself as a bit of a conversationalist, a yapper when the mood strikes, but sincerity trips you every time.
"That's what I tell myself," you say, almost to your drink, before nudging the spotlight back toward him with a playful look. "You always this good at listening, or am I lucky tonight?"
You enjoy the way he blinks, straightening up in his seat. His gaze wavers, falling back to his glass.
"I don't talk much. Listening comes easier."
His lips twitch.
"...maybe a bit of luck is involved, too."
Your brows arch, teeth catching your tongue in a pleased smile. Heat blossoms in your cheeks and your gaze falls too. In your peripheral, you spy the bartender shoot over a curious look from where she's restocking bottles.
Another sip disguises how giddy you feel. You're almost drunk enough to kick your feet with glee. Instead, you offer him a coy smile, and a challenge.
"If I stuck around, think I could get you to talk more?"
He exhales softly through his nose, and you think that just might be his version of a laugh. He mirrors you, stalling by sipping his whiskey. You watch him pull the face again.
When he sets it down, he tilts his head, considering you in full.
"I don't make a habit of it," he says, voice steady. The corner of his mouth flickers, a smirk creeping on his face. "...but I talk more if the company's worth it."
You take his words as the admission they are. By this point, your speech was starting to slur so you knew it was time to leave. Your company wasn't going to be worth anything for much longer. The dregs of your rum are swiftly drained and the empty glass hits the bar with a faint thud.
"Then I guess I'll have to come back tomorrow," You decide aloud, your voice a promise.
His brows rise. He seems relaxed against the bar now, his shoulders less tense.
"...Right,"
He lets go of his glass and extends his hand to you as you slide off your stool.
"Cloud. Strife."
Oh, what a pretty and telling name. You felt it suited him perfectly. You shake his hand, melting into his eyes as you offer your name with your final goodbyes.
Scenario: Approaching you while you pound back drinks at the bar.
Izaya Orihara
If Izaya is approaching you at the bar, it's not because he wants to get to know you better. No, he already knows everything he has to know about you just from watching. It's more likely that he has ulterior motives, and he's recruiting you for his next game.
He mirrors your mood when he approaches. If you're tired after a long day, you wouldn't believe the day he's had. If you're celebrating, then he got the promotion today. Instead of a pickup line, he leads with an observation, personal and oddly specific, leading to a carefully tailored conversation befitting your emotional state. He pushes buttons, but it doesn't feel cruel. You feel seen. Once you're baited and hooked, he'll start testing your limits, dragging your shadow out and making you look it in the eye.
Shizuo Heiwajima
At first, he watches. Sees the way you're throwing back drink after drink. He assumes you've got some kind of baggage, which wins you his respect. That being said, he won't make the first move. If he can will the courage, he'd order his soda while standing next to you, awkwardly waiting for you to say something.
You don't.
Somebody else moves in instead. They're drunk and a little handsy, don't seem to notice the way you're shying away and politely trying to ask them to leave. Their hand reaches for your hip and you brace for an impact that never comes.
Shizuo grabs the guy. Picks him up and quite literally throws him out of the bar, growling about decorum and respect. When he returns to the bar for his drink, he's sheepish. You thank him, and he mumbles a "Couldn't let it slide," before an awkward silence envelops you.
You'll have to take the lead with this one.
Chikage Rokujo
If Izaya is too playful and Shizuo is too busy respecting you to speak up, Chikage is the middle ground. He is baby bear's porridge, if you will; just right. He's drawn to beauty and drama. Seeing you put away drinks in a public setting feels like something out of a romantic noir. It appeals to the part of him that romanticizes anything cinematic.
Chikage would swagger in like he's been cast as the leading man, approaching you head on and dropping a line. His performative nature almost comes across like a theatre kid playing at being yakuza, but he seems earnest when he asks for your story. You realise that despite his delinquent appearance, he has a strong chivalrous streak and seems intent on earning your interest rather than acting as though you owe him attention. He's in it for the thrill of connection, and he'd likely offer to walk you home for no reason other than to make sure you're safe.
Scenario: Approaching you while you're pounding drinks back at the local bar.
Roy Mustang:
Roy Mustang orchestrates social interactions like covert military operations. His method is tried and tested, perfectly crafted to smoothly navigate every possibility. It contains phases such as "subtle establishment of charm", "deployment of tactical banter", and "emotional calibration."
He'd come in with a playful remark that allows you to set the tone. Are you looking for banter or do you just need someone to listen? He'd respond accordingly, listening well and engaging with you. He's open to seeing how things play out. Sometimes a good conversation is worth just as much as a night of passion.
Solf J. Kimblee:
Like Mustang, Kimblee has a calculated approach, but the intention is different. He approaches with philosophical musings that feel like dangerous confessions. This is how he filters his audience. If you challenge him, it's game on.
Kimblee doesn't flirt to flatter, but to duel. His compliments are just psychological assessments, and he wields words in a way that keeps you on your toes. Eventually he might bait you, leaning in and saying, “Let me buy your next drink. Not to impress you. Just to see if you’re the kind of person who accepts gifts from someone you probably shouldn’t trust.”
Greed:
Greed doesn't waste time once he sets his sights on you. He doesn't need time to consider his approach or gauge your mood; he's seen you, and now he's possessive.
As a businessman, he knows how to schmooze. The praise he lavishes you with makes you feel like a coveted jewel. No matter what attitude you meet him with, he's got a line to drag you in. He's not content with just being charming, though. No, he wants a reaction. He asks personal questions far too soon, he teases, he suggests outrageous things. If this doesn't chase you off, that's when he makes his offer. Whether it's money, power, protection, secrets— he's got what you want, and all you have to do is say yes.
idrk know what i'm doing. hope someone likes this.
