#fma drabble

[ghostlydaydreamer]

Reader x Roy Mustang

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.

based on this post

[kingofthewilderwest]

ACCENTS (An FMAB Drabble) - 1183 words

 (WHOA LOOK I AM ACTUALLY WRITING AND POSTING SOMETHING??)

A/N I probably have better things to do with my degree, but as a linguist, I can’t help but love language headcanons. For FMA, I imagine that Amestris follows some fairly typical dialectical patterns. Rural accents would develop in areas that make little contact with urban areas. There’d also be a dialectical distinction between people of lower and upper socioeconomic status. Dialects that fall outside of a “standard” urban upper middle class would have unique phonological features that give some peoples’ pronunciations negative stigma. Speakers of these “nonstandard” dialects would pronounce many words in ways that could be considered “funny” or “embarrassing” to others (or themselves). 

I do want to note here that all dialects ARE equally grammatical, all dialects are equally **CORRECT**, all dialects are valid and beautiful, and there’s NOTHING that makes one “better” than another. It’s just cultural perception. 

Still. I find intriguing, even amusing, that many main characters in FMA would have those “less than desirable” accents. Ed, Winry, Al, and Jean–coming from small Eastern towns out in the middle of nowhere–are no way in hell going to have the same accent as people from Central or Briggs. As for people like Roy Mustang… well… everything about his origin suggests he’d have some sort of stigmatized Central lower class inner city accent. Which is where the inspiration for this little drabble began…

.

.

. 

“I can tell no one’s working,” Lieutenant Hawkeye said as she stepped forward. The cluster of men before her were hunkered down and whispering, clearly hoping their quiet conversation could avoid detection from the colonel on the far side of the room. But Hawkeye, knowing what types of motivation prompted this quartet to whisper, asked them, with an expression so neutral it was actually intimidating, “What pointless topic is distracting you now?”

Breda kept a cool face. Havoc shrugged nonchalantly, but a betraying smile twitched around his cigarette. Fuery and Falman both had the conscience to wince.

It was Jean Havoc, of course, who dished out the details, not at all ashamed to be caught gossiping on pointless frivolities. “We’re talking about the colonel’s accent.”

“Or what should be his accent,” Breda amended.

Hawkeye felt her eyebrows rising.

Still wilting under the lieutenant’s stern stare, Fuery tried to justify their time debating this rather than handling time-sensitive paperwork. “You see, you see, you can usually tell where people are from by their accent.”

“The Standard Amestrian Dialect is heard in the center of the country, the northern regions, Central, and most large urban areas.” Falman, as always, was able to recite precise information from memory. “Specifically, for those in the middle and upper classes. People from the lower class who live in inner city Central have a unique dialect, while…”

“You’ve got country bumpkins in the East like me,” Havoc pointed to himself with a grin. Rather than cringing around the East’s rural hick reputation, Jean here embraced it, drawing out his drawl with more emphasis than usual.

“So what does this have to do with any of our present investigations or reports?” Hawkeye asked.

“Nothing,” several of the men admitted, while at the same time, Havoc insisted, “But what this does have to do is with the colonel. And that’s work-related.” He gave his stretched excuse with an impish wink.

“I accidentally stumbled into information about Mustang’s family from reports of one investigation downtown,” Breda said. “The crime took place in the ‘bar’ of a certain Madame Christmas. Chris Mustang, who if I’m not wrong–and I know I’m not, because I just looked her up–was the colonel’s guardian.”

“Which means, given how he would’ve been raised, he should have an inner city accent,” said Falman.

“Not the posh whatever-it-is he’s using now,” said Havoc. The second lieutenant, Hawkeye realized, was probably the most entertained by this prospect, as it would mean that he would no longer be the person in the room with the least desirable and most embarrassing accent. It would be the colonel.

Old memories drifted up from the back of Riza’s mind. She thought about the teenager who’d studied alchemy with her father. He’d indeed had an inner city accent then, before he met Maes Hughes and tried to copy his best friend’s upper middle class dialect best he could. By his early twenties, most–though not all–of his childhood speech had been changed. But Hawkeye wasn’t going to encourage her colleagues’ conversation by bringing these memories up.

“I told you, I think he’s hiding it,” said Fuery. “You’ve heard how he says ‘dog,’ right? That’s slightly off. The vowel’s weird.”

“I’d have to hear it again.”

“What about ‘coffee?’ ”

“Ohhhh. Oh yeah. I think you’re right.”

“No, you’re imagining it. He doesn’t say ‘coffee’ any different than I do.”

“He does. Just listen for it next time!”

“And if you don’t believe me on ‘coffee,’ try ‘short.’ He’s messed that one up, too.”

“You’re right, you’re right! I always thought that was just a weird quirk of his. But no. That’s totally the colonel hiding an accent.”

“You guys are making things up. You’re not any better than conspiracy theorists.”

“Don’t listen to him. We’re so right.”

“Look, we just need to pay closer attention. The evidence will be right in front of us. What’re words that he’d pronounce different? Things like… uh… ‘hot’ and ‘thought?’ It’s that ‘aw’ sound that gets changed, right?”

“Yes. That is one distinctive feature. Vowel shifts have lowered that vowel. And the ‘æ’ sound in words like ‘black’ are more likely to be diphthongized, and drawn out almost to the point a single syllable word sounds like two.”

“Falman, you know we have no idea what you just said, right?”

Intense discussion persisted.

“If any of you have to work overtime because of this,” Hawkeye said, finally turning away from the heated whispering session, “don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.”

However, instead of returning to her own tasks, the lieutenant stepped straight toward the colonel’s desk. Something about her brisk step alerted Falman, Fuery, Breda, and Havoc, and all of the men, sensing some unique internal motivation within Hawkeye, paused to watch the conversation.

“Sir, I’m heading down to the cafeteria for lunch.”

“You don’t have to tell me that, lieutenant.”

“You look rather busy,” Hawkeye observed. If she were indeed planning something, none of the eavesdroppers could yet determine it. This sounded like nothing but typical conversation between the two. “I was wondering if you’d like me to bring food up for you to eat at your desk.”

“Oh. Well, aren’t you thoughtful,” he grinned.

Coincidentally, that word ‘thoughtful’–which contained ‘thought’–was one of the words the men had just been discussing. Glances passed between the four, facial expressions wordlessly debating and disputing whether they had heard anything phonologically unusual here.

“Something like a hamburger or a hot dog?”

“Couldn’t complain to a hot dog.”

Everyone at the other side of the room froze. Both the words ‘hot’ and ‘dog’ had been on their List of Possible Mispronunciations, too. ‘Thoughtful’ on its own could have been a handy accident. But getting Mustang to say ‘hot’ and ‘dog’ one after the other seemed too well-timed to be mere chance.

“Something to drink?” Hawkeye continued.

“Coffee.”

Fuery bit back a laugh.

“Anything in it?”

“You know me. Just black.”

Gawking, Havoc slapped his hand on the desk–repeatedly–as he turned to mouth the words black coffee to Fuery and Falman.

“Alright.” Hawkeye gave a nod, but as she turned to go, commented, “I should be back soon, assuming the lines are short.”

“At this time? They should be short. By the way, thanks, lieutenant.”

She turned to leave. By this point, everyone sitting in the back of the room covered grins with hands clasped over their mouths, and half of them were also audibly sniggering. Mustang seemed completely oblivious to both their laughter and how Hawkeye had played him. Havoc was almost cackling, though, from the revelation of what had just passed. The fourth word from their list–and the fifth–and the sixth–had all been pronounced… slightly strangely.

Still maintaining a perfectly even facial expression, Hawkeye stepped past them. She didn’t turn to look anyone in the eye as she headed for the door. But all of them heard the comment she gave in a low voice.

“You should have heard him when he was sixteen.”

And with that, Lieutenant Hawkeye left the room.

[inkuisitivskins]

72 with livmiles? Please?

Writing prompts

72: “ They’re going to love you, don’t worry! ”

hehe… this was one of those prompts that I got an idea for the moment I read it. You guys all know how much of a sucker I am for Parental!AUs, right???

well if you didn’t, hope you enjoy :^) thank you so much for this ask anon!! (and thank you for sending in this one specifically aaaaa) <3

They’re Going to Love You on Ao3

Miles was on the verge of tears the entire, unending train ride up to Central. He wasn’t inherently sad, just intensely regretful, and possibly the most worried he had ever felt in his entire life.

Family had always been one of the highest priorities in his mind, ever since he was a young boy, taking care of his younger sister alongside his other sister. His mother often did not have the opportunity to spend much time with her three children, especially after his father died– she was constantly working, trying to scrounge up enough money to feed her family. Whenever she was home, she would be exhausted, and while it hurt Miles, he knew it wasn’t her fault in the slightest. The hardship forced him to mature quickly, to the point that it was eventually he who looked after both sisters, even though his older sister was two years apart from him. 

He didn’t deny that he wished his mother had been there for them more, but he had always promised himself that if he ever became a father, it would be different.

He already wasn’t doing a great job of that. 

Doc had eventually convinced Olivier to take her maternity leave, after weeks of arguments over physical exams. While she had succeeded in getting Olivier down to Central for more in-depth, specialized pregnancy health visits on several occasions, it was only five weeks until her due date when the major general finally gave in. She had constantly found ways to persuade the doctor into the mindset that she was fine to stay working, that the fort needed her. To that, Doc would retort with the fact that the fort had always functioned swimmingly in the past when its commander was away for military meetings and the like; and that she did not have the adequate equipment to wholly ensure the birth went smoothly. She also enjoyed reminding the general that she was not fine. Her moodswings had become almost unable to bear, with no one brave enough to reign in her and her heavily-pregnant wrath. One moment, she would be ready to snap a cadet’s arm in two (she had dislocated one already), the other moment she would lock herself in her office, with officers scrambling to find and free her in fear that she had somehow trapped herself. 

In reality, she had been eating strange concoctions of food typically found in the mess hall, sitting cross-legged behind her desk in hiding like a small, round, nocturnal creature. 

She also had turned down Miles’s advice, him concernedly saying that he should forgo work in Ishval in order to stay at Briggs and assist her with the goings-on of everyday life. Even still, she assured him that the Ishvalan Restoration was where he was needed most; it was the opportunity he had been longing for for many years, even prior to the War of Extermination.

He wish he hadn’t acceded. 

Miles had been right in the middle of a conversation with Scar; he would never forget that he had been talking about the plumbing of one of the newly-built Ishvalan districts when he received the call from Central, telling him his wife had gone into labor. 

He had tripped out of the tent and went barreling into the direction of the recently completed railroad station when Scar called back to him, reminding him that he needed to bring his suitcase of belongings with him before wishing him and his new family the best. 

He had been planning to take the next week off to go be with her, since her due date was next week– but she was a few days early in the end, and with the heaviest heart as he boarded the train, he knew that there was a chance that he would miss the birth of his child. 

It was Roy Mustang who spoke with him briefly during a small, unavoidable train layover in East City. He was grateful that the new general had immediately gone to be with Olivier during his own vacation from the Restoration work, and while he knew that she wasn’t going to be very happy about seeing him, he was aware that they had a long history of friendship, and along with her family, Roy and his own wife would take good care of her. 

He optimistically assured Miles that everything was going well thus far, and Olivier was taking her precious time, so there was still a chance Miles could make it. 

However, when General Mustang was waiting at the train station to meet him and escort him to the Armstrong Manor, Miles learned that he hadn’t. To the Ishvalan’s eternal gratitude (he made sure the general was aware of it), Roy already had a car on standby to transport them further into Central. 

It was in that car where Miles finally allowed the tears to come. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Roy asked with a hint of surprise upon seeing the display. “This is a happy day!”

“I missed it,” Miles tried to stifle a hiccup, though it failed. “What if something had gone wrong? I may have never seen Olivier or the baby ever ag–”

“But it didn’t,” the other man flashed him a kind smile. “They’re both doing great, and boy, will they be happy to see you. What is it, absence makes the heart grow fonder?”

The Ishvalan sniffled, wiping his eyes with the back of his coat sleeve, “Well, it had better be the opposite, too, because I’m never leaving Olivier’s side ever again.”

“You know she won’t have that, she’s even more stubborn now that the maternal instincts have kicked in,” Roy chuckled awkwardly. “Besides, you both will have a good several months to relax. Scar and I can handle things for a little while, as long as you’re willing to have some phone correspondence with us every few days, I’m willing to extend your paternity leave to match hers.”

The tears started again, “Thank you, General.”

Roy smiled to himself as they exited onto the street, the large and illustrious manor in plain sight now, “Don’t mention it. Just save the tears for when you see them, alright? I bet you Olivier will eat that up.”

A few moments of silence was drawn out between them for a moment, until Miles spoke up again, “What are they like?”

“Olivier said I wasn’t allowed to tell you their sex,” the general replied. “She wanted you to be completely surprised. Rest assured, they’re perfect.”

“What if they don’t like me?”

“Miles, please. Don’t be silly, didn’t you always say how much kids loved you?”

The car now parked on the side of the road, the two officers exited the back seat, Miles’s pace obviously quicker and more hurried than usual. 

“I’m just worried… I’ve been thinking about it for months.”

“They’re going to love you, don’t worry!”

They ascended the steps, a servant allowing them in. The scenery of the manor was quieter than Miles had expected, though he was sure that it was much more chaotic earlier. Thankfully, he hadn’t missed it by too terribly long; a few hours, at most. He was just grateful that there were no delays in their travel. 

Roy led him up more stairs, Riza nearly passing them as she went the opposite way. 

“Hey,” the general smiled warmly to her. The captain returned her husband’s smile; Miles always pleased to see their own interactions much more relaxed than prior to the Promised Day, for he knew what it was like to harbor feelings that would normally be dangerous to act upon. However, in the end, it worked out for both him and Olivier as well as Roy and Riza. “How is everyone?”

“Very well,” Riza flashed Miles a small, calm smile as she spoke. 

“She’s very eager to see you,” her smile grew more warm, and knowing, “and so is Olivier.”

Miles didn’t notice his own red eyes widening, she. A girl. He didn’t wait up for Roy to follow before running up the remaining stairs to Olivier’s room, taking great care to not just barge in. 

A male voice allowed him to enter upon his knocking; Miles recognized it to be the Armstrong family doctor after the two short check-ups he was able to accompany Olivier on. He didn’t even notice he was holding his breath as he slowly opened the door.

The doctor nodded a farewell to Olivier, who was sitting upright in her bed with a bundle in her arms, before smiling at Miles and uttering a congratulations upon his own exit. 

Miles swallowed the lump in his throat, finally taking a breath, “Olivier.”

She turned her head to look up at him, the smile she gave him one of the warmest he’d ever seen from her. She looked exhausted, her hair pulled up into a bun on the back of her head; but she was beautiful. 

“Hot damn, what took you so long?” Her voice sang with playfulness, of course that’s how she’d greet him.

He dropped his suitcase at the door, hurrying to her, “Olivier, I’m so sorry, I–”

She knew just how to shut him up, as she lifted the small swaddled bundle slightly, revealing his child’s face to him. The major general wore an amused smile as the colonel stared down at the baby, his red eyes welling up with tears once again as he took in her tanned skin and the one, humorous, blonde curl upon her head. 

What made the tears spill over was the sleepy, red reflection that peered back up at him once she opened her eyes. 

“Why are you crying, you big softie?” A warm laugh blossomed forth from the new mother. 

“She’s just beautiful,” Miles spoke through his tears, leaning down slightly, carefully setting a hand on the blanket that swaddled the child. “I love you. I love you both.”

“I’ll admit, I did cry too,” Olivier smiled. “Pull up a chair, it’s bonding time.”

He did so, not taking his eyes off of either of them, as his tears began to subside. 

“You want to hold her?”

Miles nodded vigorously, the amusement in the woman’s face returning as she carefully handed the baby off to the new father. 

He stared down at her, unable to shake his fond smile as he marveled at this miracle he had a hand in creating. He was entirely silent, just reveling in his first moment of fatherhood. 

“Did Roy tell you I nearly bit one of the doctors when I was giving birth?”

He couldn’t help but laugh joyfully, supreme happiness and love washing over him. He knew the coming years would be difficult, but that did not mean they wouldn’t come to enjoy and hold dear every step of their new journey, together.

what? no. i’m not crying. it’s raining

anon, idk if you read tnt, but that last chapter broke me, and i really needed to write some fluff xD while this isn’t without its own share of angst, i think all the happy bubbly feelings balance it out. i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much again <3

[egoiistas]

SO RILIE ( @wrongnote aka rightnote) says to me

Roy stood impatiently in the waiting room, because he had no other choice.  There was sign on one of the walls indicating that it was recently glistened with a new layer of paint. It was a muted color of blue. And as many times as he had been in the hospital recently, he couldn’t remember what the color was before it was painted over.

The hours went by and there were patches that became drier than the other parts of the wall. These patches were underneath the ventilation shaft or were in the right spot to take in the breeze from the double doors opening. He literally watched the paint dry as his children were born just in the other room.

[inkuisitivskins]

LivMiles werewolf AU. 👀

1) Give me a pairing.

2) Give me an AU setting.

3) I will write you a three-sentence fic. OOPS LOL

Under a read more because.. this was kind of a long drabble I’m sorry :’) I’ve just been wanting to write an AU like this for quite a while

Warning for slight blood and body horror

He had noticed her growing more distant during the last few weeks. Distant, and moody. 

Many of her soldiers would joke about the monthly cause of her heightened aggression, though Miles knew otherwise. He also couldn’t help but notice how it happened on every full moon, and when he would politely question her about it, she would always avoid the question– which was unlike her. He had noted how she was always able to tell him anything, save for the reasons behind her hostility every night leading up to, and the eventual leave she took from the fort, the night a full moon rose into the sky. 

Miles was never a man to jump to conclusions, but he would admit to himself that he was growing increasingly worried. Every episode of hers would grow more vicious until this last time, where her absence from the fort had last longer than a single night. Frankly, her leaving the fort without informing him, her adjutant, her personal assistant, and her best friend, worried him– but an unexplained extended leave terrified him to the core. What if something happened?

She had assured him one of the earlier times that her absence was merely a nightly walk, and she did not leave the confines of the area surrounded by the fort, on the Amestrian side of the border, of course. She never “took a walk” in the no-man’s-land between Briggs and the Drachman border, yet Miles still grew increasingly nervous. Even in Amestris where there were no human enemies, the snowy mountain range around Briggs was still inhospitable; being inhabited by dangerous wildlife and even more dangerous, unpredictable weather. 

Sure, the werewolf myth had crossed his thoughts, and wolf chimeras were absolutely a real thing, but he paid no mind to it. If his general had been a chimera, he would like to believe that she would have told him, since the existence of chimeras was tied directly to the military and experiments it had done. Come to think of it, if she was, she most likely wouldn’t have kept it any sort of secret, since the fort was of military purpose, after all.

Still, he found himself quietly making his way down the elevator of Briggs, almost precisely at midnight, when the fort was still, except for the few nightly workers and soldiers who were given the graveyard shift. He didn’t know why he held an unlit lantern in his grasp– he had been tossing the idea around for quite a while, but he supposed he was finally, actually, going to go out looking for her. An absence of two days was far too long for comfort. 

He made sure the fur on his coat was snugly against the back of his neck to keep out any cold as he lit the lantern, exiting the iron walls of Fort Briggs. The night was dark, but the full moon cast an eerie light that reflected off the snow and caused it to look blue rather than white. He lifted the lantern and started walking– in what direction, he was not even sure. He just had to find her. 

Not much time had passed when he happened upon an unusually large footprint in the snow. Normally, he paid no attention to the animal tracks that would litter the snow once one drew far enough away from the fort to find wildlife, but this was even larger than a bear’s. Twice as large, actually. 

Miles didn’t notice himself staring in dumbfounded awe down at the huge print, until he heard a deer cry out nearby. His red eyes snapped up in the direction of the noise, and he immediately hurried over. One again, he didn’t know why. Maybe it was because he loved animals, and if one was hurt, he may try to help. 

Maybe it was because something in the back of his mind knew what was going on. 

He topped a snowy hill, freezing in his footsteps when he saw it. A deer carcass sat in the snow, freshly killed, by what large, looming mass of fur hunkered over it. Its long, white fur stood out against the seemingly blue snow as it tore into its kill, too distracted to notice him.

Why, was unbeknownst to him, but he spoke out, “Hey!”

Immediately couldn’t even begin to describe how quickly the canine head swerved to stare at him. Its maw was bloodied, and its eyes seemed void of pupils in the way they reflected the light of Miles’s lantern. His heart stopped instantaneously, terrified. 

It lunged at him, knocking him onto his back with its long limbs– thankfully, the impact was soft due to the snow. The figure, however, pinned him, breathing heavily and snarling as its eyes remained locked on his, the iron stench of blood strong on on it as it clung to its fur. Heat seemed to be radiating angrily and dangerously off its large body, and Miles could only stare up at it in sheer horror. 

It was this moment, though, when it knocked the lantern from his hands, and he could fully see the color of its eyes. It’s pupils were visible slits now, but the irises were a bright, icy blue, that seemed to be glowing in the darkness of the night. There was only one living thing he knew that had eyes like that. 

“Olivier?” He breathed, chest heaving. Teeth still bared, the wolf sat up ever so slightly, its small ears pricking forward as he spoke. He watched in silence as its pupils widened and shrunk as it focused its sights on him, obviously in deep thought. It still seemed confused, so it bent down, frighteningly close to his face, and touched its nose gently to his cheek, sniffing deeply– the deep noise of its breathing loud in the major’s ear. 

In one motion, it straightened and leapt off of him, its heavy feet strangely quick in the snow as it fled. 

“W-wait, please!” The Ishvalan scrambled to his feet, losing his footing on the snow several times as he grabbed his lantern and hurried to pursue the creature. He caught a glimpse of it running along the treeline, noticing the moonlight on it– the light catching its white fur, seemingly reflecting off a golden hue. 

Thankfully, the snow was deep here, so it was not difficult for him to follow its tracks. Eventually, he came upon a clearing that was surrounded by snow-laden trees, where the footsteps seemed to stop due to the light snow that was now beginning to fall. 

“General?” He raised his voice, looking around. “Please, I want to help you! I’ve been so worried! I-I…” He continued, quieting down. In truth, he was always so protective of her because she was the person he loved most in this whole world. Not only had they slowly gained each other’s trust through their work, but they eventually became best friends, and around that time, Miles finally had the guts to admit to himself that he’d fallen in love with her.

And, in all honesty, if this was Olivier, this changed nothing. It was still her same soul, albeit clouded with a primal need to hunt, and he would give his life to keep her safe.

Heavy steps crunching in the snow behind him caused him to swing around, the force of which sent his lantern flying, since he didn’t have a good enough grip on it with his military-issue gloves. The beast was stalking him, its large paws seemingly moving in slow motion as it crouched. Even with knees bent, its height was that of a normal-sized bear. 

“Olivier,” Miles said again, his voice breaking slightly. He loved her, but he didn’t want it to end like this for him. He had grown up being told folktales by his mother, and one of the ones that stuck with him most to this day was the one about werewolves, where, when under transformation, they had no conscious control over any of their actions. He knew it wouldn’t be her fault, but he also knew that he had made a promise to himself long ago that he wouldn’t die before he told her that he loved her. 

“Please…”

It gained on him, still slowly, until it sank down into the snow, ready to lunge again. 

“Olivier, I love you…”

Instantly, it lifted its head, pupils dilating to circles. It yelped suddenly, the shrill noise not matching the large and powerful body, as it stumbled forward. It lost footing in the snow, tripping onto its stomach, yet already too weak to pick itself up again. Contorting in sharp pain, the beast seemingly began to shrink as the fur retreated into the skin. In a strangely human way, it hid its face in its large paws, its pointed muzzle still peering out between the paw pads, as the whole body lost fur and began to grow more human features once again. Bones were heard cracking as the spine realigned and the pelvis opened to also take on the shape of a person’s rather than that of a quadruped mammal; arm bones shortening from the length they were as not a pure wolf’s, but a monster’s. Blonde hair that matched the gold of the fur soon took over on the head as the canine snout disappeared. Soon, all that remained was the motionless figure of a woman, quickly being consumed by snow. 

Though he was in utter horror from what just transpired before his eyes, Miles shakily stood, urging his body to move despite the shock it was experiencing. Completely ignoring his lantern, he immediately undid the buttons on his coat and hurried to his superior, shedding it quickly. She was limp, so it was difficult, but he managed to prop her up enough to wrap his coat around her, swiftly lifting her bridal style, making sure all of her bare skin was covered by the heavy fabric. 

“Olivier?” He asked, panting due to the shock that remained, his breath leaving him as puffs of smoke in the cold air. He moved a hand to rest two fingers on the side of her neck, sensing a weak pulse– yet a pulse nonetheless. 

At his touch, her eyes fluttered, opening weakly. Though it was obvious how weak she was, his face immediately brightened at her sign of life. 

“I’m sorry,” were the first words that left her, her voice scratchy and soft.

“No, don’t,” Miles replied quickly, bending down to retrieve the lantern. She wasn’t very heavy, and he was rather strong, so he had no trouble carrying her. “Just please be okay…”

“I’ll be fine,” she rasped what sounded like a chuckle as the corners of her lips lifted into a weak smile. “Happens all the time. It’s always painful like this…”

“I’m sorry,” her adjutant responded, walking as quickly as he feet could carry him without fully breaking into a run. He smiled down at her gently, understandingly, “I just wish you told me.”

She shrugged gently, voice still faint, “Lycanthropy… runs in the family. Skips some members sometimes, though…”

“No shit?” Miles breathed, flashing her a small smile, just glad that she was making coherent conversation. He wanted to keep it up so that she didn’t slip back out of consciousness.

“Passed down the Armstrong line for generations,” she sighed shakily, to which he laughed softly. What he wasn’t expecting was the ginger, feather-light touch of her fingertips against his dark cheek, which drew his attention down to her and caused him to have somewhat of a surprised look on his face. 

She gave him the fondest smile she could possibly muster in the state she was currently in, “I love you too.”

—

I drew like all of the inspiration from this from that one post going around a bit ago about how in some legends, werewolves could be transformed back by confessing to them or throwing clothes on them or something like that? Even if that isn’t right and my memory’s failing me, that’s how it works in this AU HAHA

Anyway yeah, I already apologized but this drabble was so long x’D I’ve just been wanting to do a supernatural AU like this with them for a while so I was SO happy when you asked this haha. Either way, thank you so much, Katie!! I’ll be posting this in my Livmiles drabbles collection on ao3 if that’s cool!

ALSO I based the werewolf off the Wolf Beasts seen in Bloodborne. Basically wolves with long creepy limbs

Thank you so much! <3

[inkuisitivskins]

81 LIVMILES

Writing Prompts

81. If you buy that, I’m leaving you.

One of the things Olivier dreaded most in this world was visiting for Central for any reason other than military cabinet meetings. This time, however, she attempted to loosen up and enjoy her visit– especially since it was a shopping trip for the new addition to her family. 

“No, Miles,” the blonde sighed. She held her large tummy as she leaned against the wall, trying to suppress another angry mood swing. She had been so on edge lately, her emotions swinging wildly from publicly affectionate to eerily kind to her soldiers to literally about to murder the next person she saw. She was especially high-strung recently, given that she had put off maternity leave from Fort Briggs for as long as humanly possible until a few days prior. 

Her partner pouted, lowering the baby-sized banana costume he had proudly shown her. “Please, Olivier? It’s so cute, our baby will be adorable.”

The off-duty general brushed some hair from her face. She couldn’t be mad at Miles, he was trying so hard. While Olivier was rather calm about the whole ordeal, Miles had been the most ecstatic the general had ever seen him be. He already had five different baby names picked out for each sex, plus some unisex ones. While she was still on duty and unable to leave the fort, Miles had made several trips to North City to begin purchasing baby-related items, like prenatal vitamins and clothes. Apparently, the Ishvalan hadn’t gotten enough of the clothes shopping. 

“Our baby will be adorable regardless. Have you seen my baby pictures?” She joked, earning a smile from her adjutant. “But you’ve already gotten them more clothes than I think they’ll ever need. They’ll grow before they wear all of them even once.”

“Your exaggerating, sir,” Miles replied, setting down the costume. Olivier had told him long ago that the formalities were no longer necessary between them, however it was in these moments of her being away from the fort that the “sirs” really helped. It reminded her of who she was. “Buuut,” he began with an amused smile, earning a quirked eyebrow from the woman. 

He lifted a baby-sized muscle suit costume, failing to hold back a laugh when he saw Olivier’s blue eyes widen in horror. 

“They’ll look like your brother, dear!” He hardly managed to choke out the words between laughs. 

Olivier waited for his laughter to die down before replying, her voice low and as serious as a heart attack.

“If you buy that, I’m leaving you.”

—-

HEHEHE so me and Parisa were discussing pregnant Olivier just earlier today and it got me in such a Mood :p

sorry this was kinda crack, I just love them sm and they’d be such good parents *shakes fist*

Thank you for the ask! This got me warmed up for writing today :3

[egoiistas]

Naming the Hero

A/N this has been in my wip for quite some time now. I touched it up a little, but I’m not 100% with it. But I don’t know how much more I can look at it and not hate. WHICH I DONT WANT TO BECAUSE ITS HELLA CUTE OK. 

So here it is. a TrishaxHoho drabble  Rating: K – 545 words – Fluff

On a lazy afternoon in Resembool, Trisha and Hohenheim contemplate about their firstborn. 

“My, my. He’s a kicker.”

Hohenheim passively grunted in response, turning to her from reading his book, Raising Babies and You. “How do you know it’s a boy?”

Trisha lovingly rubbed her swollen belly, smiling down at their unborn child, then at him. “Why don’t you find out?” She answered softly.

Her smiles are always the sweetest, but he knew better. He knew he was just being lured into finding out whether it was a boy or a girl. He knew that she knew that he could find out. 

Setting the book aside, he placed his hands on his Trisha’s pregnant belly. She “ooh”ed at his touch, her eyes following his hands. Subtle, red electricity sparked from his fingertips

“Dear, I just wanted you to feel him kick.”

Just underneath the stretch of skin, his palm sensed the movement. The wave of emotion hit him harder than he expected with the realization that his son was currently in there.

“Don’t cry!” A gentle hand clasped his face.

He cleared his throat, turning away from her. He wiped his eyes swiftly. “I wasn’t, it was the wind.”

“You’re right, it is pretty windy today.” She reassured him. After a moment, she asked, “Is it a boy?”

He nodded, clearing his throat and settling back into his reading spot against the tree. 

“What should we name him?”

He choked, not having considered he’d choose a name – for him – with her. His eyes began to burn behind his glasses again. “You’ll only make fun of me if think of names.” He said dismissively to her.

“I won’t.” She winked, sitting up against the bark. “I promise.”

Hohenheim rubbed his golden-haired chin thoughtfully.

‘Theo. Theophrastus Bombastus.’ The dwarf had said.

“Theo?” 

Trisha hummed indifferently.

“Mayo?”

“Mayo?” She giggled with the cutest pinch in her brow.

He narrowed his eyes, grumbling at her. “Did you hear the news from town?”

“What news?”

“That a monster was stalking residents around Resembool.” He shifted his glasses. A glare gleamed on the lens, blocking the view of his eyes ominously. “A tickle monster…” 

“Oh no, that sounds awful.”

“Going after pregnant women with brown hair,” Hohenheim continued, extending his hands out like claws at her.

“Oh no!” Her arms went to her sides, but it wasn’t enough. Trisha convulsed into fits of giggles and unladylike squawks at the first touch to her sides. “I’ll behave!” She yielded, and drifted off pensively after catching her breath. “Hmm. What about…Edowado.”

He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose as he looked towards her. “Why not just Edward?”

She perked up, turquoise eyes of hers glistening. She clapped her hands together. “Yes! You really are brilliant, Mr. Hohenheim!”

“You wanted that from the beginning, didn’t you?”

She shook her head with a playful air around her. “Not at all.”

He paused for a moment, looking at the rolling clouds just like an image that rolled somberly into his own thoughts. “He’ll have your name.”

“It can’t be helped.” Trisha placed his palm on her womb. There was a sheen layer of moisture in her eyes.  “As long as he knows you’re his father and you nurture him and teach him the wonderful things you know. But most of all.” 

Hohenheim wiped a tear from her eye as a single drop escaped from him.

“That you love him.”

[theliteraryluggage]

"Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing." for your first line fic stuff :3

"Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing." Kimblee's voice behind him makes Mustang jump and he whirls around. He'd forgotten that Kimblee was there for a dangerous moment, had turned his back on him. "All these months you've denied your true allegiance, all these years you've played the loyal dog of the military ... to protect your subordinates, yes?" Mustang grits his teeth, hands curled into fists at his sides, itching to snap. "And now the Fullmetal Alchemist is dead anyway. At the hands of your alchemy. Well ... and mine, of course." Kimblee chuckles, like life is just a funny little thing. "One has to wonder ... if you had acted in accordance with your beliefs from the start, if they had had the Flame Alchemist as a true ally instead of whatever you think your half-hearted collusion in Central has accomplished ... they might have had a chance." Kimblee sighs, almost regretful, regarding his fingernails. "As it is, Elric was the only fighter worth his salt they had, really. The whole thing is going to come crashing down very soon now. A pity, really. I was rather having fun." Mustang takes a deep breath, releases it slowly. Tries not to let the groaning of the burning rubble at his back erode the last of his composure. Let Kimblee believe that they have won, let him bask in his premature gloating. Mustang knows better than to underestimate the Elrics.

Oof, another tough one! Been thinking about this for a couple of days now. But of course it ended up being a Vox Populi thing again after all 😂 one track mind.

Leave the first sentence of a fic in my ask box and I will write the next five.