#writetober19

[flourchildwrites]

Prompt: TodoMomo; Todoroki performing CPR on Momo to restart her heart

Witch, Please!  Fictober 2019  (19/31)

A multi-fandom Fictober prompt compilation.  Your wish is my command, but be careful what you ask for.  You just might get it.

For Anonymous

Prompt:  Heart-Stopping (or something like that, lol)

Fandom:  Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Relationship/Pairing:  Todoroki Shouto/Yaoyorozu Momo

Genre: Fluff and Angst with a Happy Ending

Rating:  Teen And Up Audiences

Word Count:  2,741 words

Read on AO3

Sneaking in and out of hospitals might as well be a part of the hero track curriculum. Shouto Todoroki likes to think he’s pretty good at it. He’s done it more than most.

He plans his visits weeks in advance and calls ahead so that the front desk knows he’s coming. Eyes down, Shouto navigates the hospital corridors, grasping the bill of his ball cap between his thumb and index finger. Indeed, it would anger Endeavor if he was seen at such a place, but that’s not why Shouto makes such an effort to camouflage himself.

For one, it wouldn’t be fair to her, his mother. Her unjust commitment is punishment enough. But also, his disguises tend to make Rei smile. When she sees her son wearing Midoria’s borrowed All-Might cap, her pale features stretch into a genuine smile.

“Does your father know you have that hat?” she laughs, slender fingers pressed to her lips.

Shouto smirks in reply. He thinks maybe, just this once, he’ll let his disguise fall on purpose.

At Rei’s request, the visit doesn’t last long. They never do, but things have been getting easier. Shouto takes it as a good omen that she can joke about her husband despite the havoc he wreaked on the collection of strangers that was once the Todoroki family.

He nearly makes it to the exit when a pair of familiar onyx eyes stops him in his tracks. Momo Yaoyorozu is a startling sight outside of her school uniform. Her raven hair is worn down, hidden by the hood of a jacket zipped taut across her chest. Shouto’s first thought is that she must be here to visit someone, like him.

His second is that she’s in a wheelchair, and she most definitely sees him as well.

“Yaoyorozu?” he queries, shocked at the suddenness of her appearance.

In response, she tries to jump out of the wheelchair. Her chest and face begin to flush with he imagines, a mixture of panic and embarrassment.

“Not so fast,” a voice chides.

Shouto’s gaze snaps upward to view a middle-aged woman grasping the handles of Momo’s chair. Both her business-like frown and her stiff-pressed uniform scream no-nonsense nurse. “Are you Ms. Yaoyorozu’s friend?” she asks. Her tone is accusatory, to say the least.

“Yes, I-”

“In the future,” she lectures, “it would be wise to accompany her all the way to the hospital when her symptoms worsen, not drop her off around the corner.”

Shouto opens his mouth to defend himself when he catches the panic in Momo’s eyes. The young semi-pro is many things, well-known for not being quick on the uptake, but he isn’t entirely without tact. He closes his mouth and nods.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be sure to do better moving forward.”

...

They take the bus back into the city center, and Yaoyorozu talks as Shouto listens. He does not ask for an explanation so much as he thinks she wants to give one. And if a sounding board is what Momo needs, Shouto believes that the least he can do is hear her out. She fiddles with her long sleeves the entire way, scratching at bandages which undoubtedly conceal needle marks. Words like ‘hypoglycemia’ and ‘quirk evolution’ pass through his ears. Shouto doesn’t understand everything she says, but he gets the gist of it.

“They don’t know if this something temporary or if the changes in my quirk’s function are permanent,” Momo says. “Either way, U.A. doesn’t know. My family has an arrangement with the hospital. We’d like to keep it quiet until… Until we’re sure… I’m fine for now, though, and I’d appreciate your discretion.”

The weight of the information takes Shouto by surprise. His discretion is one thing, but there’s a deeper issue at play.

“So, you go to the hospital when your blood sugar doesn’t come up fast enough?”

“Yes. And in between so that my doctor can monitor my bloodwork.”

“And you go alone? Jirou isn’t really dropping you off around the corner, is she?”

“No, I wasn’t ready for anyone to find out. Not even Kyoka.”

The bus isn’t crowded today, and for this, Shouto is grateful. The relative calm of the engine’s steady purr and the soothing sound of the city streets help the young man think. His decision is neatly made, conspicuously without the judgmental chiding which he thinks Yaoyorozu expects.

“I’ll go with you,” Shouto announces, leaving little room for discussion. “We have the same class schedule.”

“Todoroki, I couldn’t impose-”

“You’re not,” he says, unsure even as an ugly truth spills from his lips. When had he decided to tell her? She hadn’t asked. “My mother is in that hospital. Our family also has an arrangement. I visit her when I can. It might be better for us to travel together.”

Momo tries to protest, but Shouto will hear none of it. He makes sure she has his phone number and insures that she will use it, even for routine check-ups.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Todoroki,” Yaoyorozu says as they slip past the gates of U.A.

“Don’t thank me,” he responds. “It’s what friends are for.”

...

The first text comes a month later. Yaoyorozu and Todoroki slip out on a Wednesday night under the pretense of getting cold soba. Rei is thrilled by the impromptu visit though she cautions her son not to make school night meetups a regular thing. He doesn’t tell her about Momo. Even though he assures himself that she’s just a friend, it feels too soon.

After Yaoyorozu is given the all-clear, they really do get cold soba — her treat. He tries not to slurp the noodles, but she giggles at the attempt. There’s a bright look about her eyes that makes Shouto feel as if his half hot quirk is misbehaving.

“It’s okay to be yourself around me,” Momo says. “It’s what friends are for.”

His words taste sweeter coming out of her mouth.

...

A routine appointment brings them in on a Saturday morning, but Rei takes longer to ready herself than usual. Momo’s appointment goes smoothly, and judging by her smile, her treatments are working. She’s finished before Shouto can begin, and he realizes their delicate position.

Shouto cannot disappoint his mother, not when this visit had been planned for over a month. Neither can Momo risk being seen in the hospital. The longer she waits, the stronger the chances that she’ll be noticed.

There’s only one thing to be done. Shouto holds his breath when he asks the question, and he isn’t quite sure why the words feel heavy on his tongue.

She is just a friend, and surely, Rei would like to meet some of Shouto’s friends. She has even asked him to bring Yaoyorozu around once or twice.

“Would you like to meet my mother?” he finally blurts out.

Relief floods Shouto’s system when Momo grins broadly and tells him that she would like that very much.

...

The jacket tossed over Momo’s arm isn’t just a disguise anymore. Six months into their arrangement, she has become a regular fixture at visits. Sometimes, Momo pops her head in to say hello, and Rei responds with a polite nod, indicating that she’d like to be alone with her son. Most days, Rei invites the everything heroine inside, Momo wraps herself in a jacket and the two schoolmates listen while Shouto’s mother regales them with tales from her days of glory.

“Frostbite is an amazing hero,” Momo gushes, and Shouto can’t help but notice that Momo always uses the present tense. He also believes that his mother is an amazing woman. Time cannot tarnish the legacy she left behind when she retired to start a family. “I’m not sure anyone has been able to rival your mastery of winter weather rescue. Not even Todoroki.”

Rei preens as Shouto struggles to conceal a slight frown. “I don’t know. Shouto’s getting pretty close. He’s able to use his quirk more freely than I ever could since his hot half regulates his body temperature. Speaking of which, are you cold, Yaoyorozu? I can ask the staff to increase the temperature.”

The young man’s head turns to see his friend trembling beside him on the small loveseat. After many years of training, regulating his body temperature is second nature, as natural as breathing, but Yaoyorozu has no such capability. Shouto rarely notices how cold his mother keeps her room, but he makes a mental note to pay attention to it in the future.

Without the memory of deciding to do so, Shouto slips his left hand behind Momo’s back. His fingers tighten around the small of her waist. He isn’t sure where the bold gesture came from, but he’s relieved when his friend — and he swears to himself she’s just a friend — sinks into his touch. A knowing look flashes across Rei’s face, and Shouto isn’t sure if she is alarmed or relieved.

“Better?” he asks Momo.

And although she nods in earnest, the blush that spreads across her face makes him think he’s warmed her too much. Still, he keeps his arm around her for the remainder of their long visit, and she makes no attempt to pull away.

...

Momo’s been looking pale lately. Shouto thinks their peers are beginning to suspect something. In the back of his mind, he’s been wondering how he should phrase his concern when finally the text message comes.

Momo Yaoyorozu, 2:16 p.m.Can we visit your mother after gym today?

Shouto Todoroki, 2:16 p.m.Are you sure you don’t need to see her sooner?

Momo Yaoyorozu, 2:18 p.m.I can wait a little while. Meet you in the common area after class?

Shouto Todoroki, 2:19 p.m.Yes. We can get cold soba after if you’re up to it.

Momo Yaoyorozu, 2:19 p.m.I’d really like that.

Shouto suppresses a smile as he places his cell phone in the gym locker. He hardly hears the chatter of his classmates as they change into their swimsuits but does not believe he’s missing much. Surely, Mineta is drooling at the thought of his female classmates in form-fitting swimwear, though everyone knows their swimsuits are as modest as they come. Certainly, Bakugo is making posturing, if violent, remarks, directed toward him and Midoria. The hot and cold hero expects nothing less.

But in just over an hour’s time, he and Momo will be on their way to the hospital. And this is where the young man’s mind prefers to dwell.  Shouto doesn’t know why, but he thinks he’ll feel a lot better once they’re well on their way. For her sake, he hopes Aizawa will take it easy on class 1-A today.

...

“YAOMOMO! YAOMOMO!”

Shouto hears Jirou’s screams from the other side of the pool, and his head emerges from the turbulent surface of the water just in time to see the green illumination of Midoria’s quirk. Fast as lightning, Deku makes his move, and Shouto stares on as Momo’s limp body is pulled from the lane where she was swimming laps.

Jirou screams again. “I CAN’T HEAR HER HEART. YAOMOMO!”

There’s a shuffling of bodies and a myriad of quirk usage as Class 1-A’s training kicks in. Iida speeds away to fetch Recovery Girl, and Uraraka levitates Yaoyorozu’s body, placing it down gently in the proper presentation. As Aizawa confirms Jirou’s observations, he calls off Kaminari, stating that his electric quirk is too dangerous to use under these conditions. It’s all Shouto can do to rush to her side, unsure of how he will be able to help, and when he gets there (after seconds that feel like hours), the young man is alarmed by how pale and lifeless she looks.

He blames himself, though he isn’t sure why and hold her hand as if the sheer force of his will could pump life back into her body.

But it can’t.

There is no time for hesitation. Aizawa is quick to begin chest compressions, counting loudly toward 30 as he forcibly pumps his student’s heart. And as the instructor’s voice reaches the number 20, Shouto realizes what he expected to do. He realizes that his fingers are beneath her chin, tilting her head upward, and his lips hover over hers, waiting to coax oxygen into her lungs. The hand gently caressing her forehead dips to pinch her nose, and on the count of 30, Shouto’s mouth covers Momo’s.

He gives her two gentle breaths, watching as her chest gently rises, and Shouto prepares to do it again, as many times as it takes, until she comes back to him.

It nearly breaks him when he realizes that she still tastes sweet.

...

Shouto’s classmates don’t ask how he knows the name of Momo’s doctor or the hospital where he primarily practices. They don’t question why he is aware of the Glucagon injection pen she keeps tucked into her purse, and if not for Recovery Girl’s insistence, he would have ridden in the ambulance with her. Not even Aizawa tries to stop him from leaving, even after he forbade class 1-A from rushing to Momo’s bedside.

He’ll take his punishment, whatever it is.

There are no disguises this time, and Shouto does not hesitate to call a cab. He doesn’t care when the driver recognizes him, and he cares even less about the wake of whispers that follow him inside the hospital’s automatic doors.

Recognition flashes across the receptionist’s eyes when she sees him, and it appears to bother her when she tells Shouto that she cannot release information to anyone that isn’t family. Todoroki turns away and slams his fist against a nearby wall. Rage bubbles just beneath the surface, and he can feel his quirk fluctuating dangerously beneath his skin. He is ready to search the hospital floor by floor when a familiar, middle-aged nurse catches sight of him.

She clears her throat and begins speaking loudly about the new admission in room 7309. Though unconscious, the young woman is stable, and her family is eagerly waiting to see her in the common area of the 7th floor. Shouto nods thankfully in her direction, and with an understanding tilt of her head, she responds in kind.

He races up seven flights of stairs and meets her parents, a woman with wet onyx eyes and a tall man with spiky raven hair.

They wait in silence for the dust to settle.

...

When finally he’s allowed in to see her, Shouto doesn’t know what to say. Her parents hug her, and her mother cries softly into the fabric of Momo’s hospital gown. Her father tries to accept all the guilt, and everyone agrees that U.A. should have been informed of her condition.

“Thank the Gods for Shouto Todoroki,” her mother sobs.

And that’s when she notices he is there, straddling the doorway, half in and half out of the room.

Momo’s eyes seem lighter than usual as they turn on Shouto, and from where he is standing, he feels both too near and too far from her. The lips that his mouth touched smile and beckon him to come closer. Shouto’s body obeys on instinct, and he waits patiently as her parents excuse themselves under the pretext of getting a cup of terrible hospital coffee.

“Guess I owe you some cold soba,” she offers to lighten the mood.

Shouto balks in reply.

“Momo, don’t even-”

“I was really looking forward to our date, even if it wasn’t really, y’ know, a date. And now, I might not even be allowed back at-”

In actuality, it’s the fourth or fifth time that Shouto finds his mouth pressed against Momo’s, but this time, her lips are warm and inviting and still so very sweet. He is careful of the cords and tries not to push her back into the meager cushion of her hospital bed. But there is so much worry and want that Shouto can barely contain himself. He speaks in ragged verses as one kiss becomes another and then another. And all of his words are promises of proper dates, more profound talks and endless kisses, whether she comes back to U.A. or not.

The elevated ticking of her heart monitor fills the room, and rather than annoy Shouto, the sound comforts him. Through a haze of want that threatens to consume him, he hopes that her heart belongs to him and wonders what took him so long to realize that his heart belongs to her.

A/N:  I really enjoyed writing this prompt, and unsurprisingly, I over-committed. So, perhaps the prose is a bit more straightforward than usual, and maybe I wrote this thing in one, feverish sitting. And I definitely have adopted a “no beta, no cry” policy for the month of October.  Suffice it to say, I hope anyone who reads this likes it! Feel free to send me pairing requests for particular prompts (Fictober or original) via my tumblr, and if you read something you like, don’t hesitate to let me know. Your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, comments, likes and reblogs make my day!

[flourchildwrites]

While I still have to read Bound By(sooon) how about a fictober prompt? If you dont have anything planned yet, either "fight" or "trapped" for royai? Thanks! Im loving what Ive read so far!

Witch, Please!  Fictober 2019  (13/31)

A multi-fandom Fictober prompt compilation.  Your wish is my command, but be careful what you ask for.  You just might get it.

For @dvltgr

Prompt:   “Fight” from Writetober 2019 Prompt List

Fandom:  Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types

Relationship/Pairing:  Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang

Genre:  Pre-Canon, Young!Royai

Rating:  Teen And Up Audiences

Word Count:  1,726 words

Read on AO3

Dinner at Hawkeye Manor was a pleasant affair for those who were accustomed to long stretches of loaded silence. After three years of dining in a conversation vacuum, Roy Mustang had gotten used to it.

Berthold Hawkeye took his meals with his nose pressed between the pages of the newspaper while his daughter balanced the checkbook. Clinking silverware and chiming glass accompanied the pungent smell of printer’s ink as the tip of Riza’s pencil scratched against the household’s ledger. The set of the fourteen-year old’s blonde brow spoke volumes about the solvency of the Hawkeye estate, and judging from recent observations, Roy braced himself for another hard winter. He wrote home to his Aunt Chris, asking for sweet treats, a thick pair of gloves and extra blankets to see him through, intending to put the letter to post the next morning before his lessons.

“What are you doing?”

Riza’s voice was not entirely jarring, but the sudden urgency of the question caught Roy off guard. He flinched, nearly jumped out of his skin and pivoted in his chair, staring back at the knock-kneed tomboy as if he had seen a ghost. Admittedly, she had been looking paler lately; the threadbare quality of her clothes emphasized that fact.

“Writing a letter to my Aunt. Why?”

“The one who lives in Central?”

“Yes.” Roy supposed he hadn’t quite explained that he only had one aunt, that he knew of at least, but wasn’t about to start now. “Why?” Roy’s voice carried an edge that he hadn’t quite anticipated.

“Sorry,” he added, apologetically, “I’ve got a lot to do here, and you startled me. Is there something you need, Riza?”

Reluctance was not an emotion that Riza wore all that often or all that well. She fiddled with the frayed end of her baby blue sweater, refusing to meet his eyes as she spoke. “You should go into town to mail that letter this evening so it’ll go out on the morning train,” she said. “I’ll set aside some dinner for you. I’ll even give you an extra slice of dessert. It’s peach cobbler.”

“That will take almost an hour, and I don’t want an extra slice of dessert,” Roy retorted. “I can just give the letter to the postman tomorrow morning. One day won’t make a difference.”

Still stroking the hem of her clothing, Riza’s tone became impassioned. She looked up to meet the gaze of her father’s apprentice. “It might freeze tomorrow night, and the mail to Central could be delayed for weeks. Could you please, Roy? I- I need to talk to my father, and I think it’d be best if you were out.”

Roy opened his mouth to argue but stopped as the puzzle pieces fit together, forming a more precise picture in his mind. Riza needed to speak with her father, which she never did. She’d made Professor Hawkeye’s favorite food, peach cobbler, which they rarely could afford. Riza was offering Roy an extra slice of dessert - possible her own - because it was the only bargaining chip she had to offer.

He’d be an ass to refuse her request at this point. Aunt Chris had taught him better than that.

“Fine,” he hissed through gritted teeth. Roy glanced out the window as the wind gusted through the trees, knocking burnish yellow, brown and orange leaves from the branches. He shivered at the thought of a long, lonely walk down the dusty country road.

…

Roy returned later than intended with frozen toes and cheeks red and raw from the cold. As he stepped into the entryway and stamped his boots against the mat, Roy heard raised voices coming from their small kitchen, the place he usually ate dinner.

“I give you food. I give you shelter. I provide for a first-rate education, and what has that school imposed on us! The clothes on your back are fine as they are, and I should write that school an impassioned letter to protest non-academic endeavors. End of discussion.” Berthold’s raised voice loomed through the wooden walls of the dilapidated country home.

“All the other girls enjoy the cotillion,” Riza stressed. Her tone was high and shrill. “I don’t want to ruin it for everyone, but the nice dress I have doesn’t fit. I asked my teacher if I could help prepare and serve the food again with the lower grades, but she said no. I’m to be judged on table etiquette this year and dancing next year. The cotillion is one-sixth of my overall grade, Father!”

“Table etiquette and dancing!” Berthold scoffed. “I’m not going to allow you to spend a quarter of our monthly budget on frivolities such as shoes and dresses that you’ll wear once. What you have is sufficient.”

“Please, Father. I already tried letting out the seams. See? The hem is too far above my knees, and my chest-”

Roy crept close to the doorframe. He walked softly to muffle the sound of his footsteps against the hardwood and pressed his back against the wall. The apprentice stilled his breath to hear his master’s low, cruel utterance.

“Maybe you should eat less. It fit your mother fine when she was your age.”

There was a beat of silence as the weight of his words settled and wreaked their havoc. Roy’s fists tightened. His teeth clenched, and he heard the soft shuffling of fabric and shoes against the kitchen’s checkerboard floor as Riza darted into the hall.

He caught sight of her as she passed and was surprised to find Riza wearing a lacey white dress gone yellow with age. The delicate layers sat too high on her hips, and the button-up back was taut.  The effect strained the natural curves of her figure in places where the garment should have comfortably fallen. In the split-second their eyes met, she turned away and darted up the stairs toward her room.

As Roy followed in Riza’s footsteps, he stopped off at the small apprentice dormitory to discard his jacket, boots and scarf but caught sight of the dinner on his desk before he could peel the layers from his skin. As promised, there sat an extra serving a peach cobbler and a note thanking him for his discretion. The sight hurt Roy’s heart just as much as the soft sobs coming from the other side of the hallway.

He sat down to write another letter to his Aunt Chris and told himself that he didn’t mind two brisk walks through the bitter cold on the same evening.

…

If the crates stacked in the entryway of Hawkeye Manor bothered Berthold, he paid them little mind. The postman begrudgingly lugged them in from his wagon with sideways remarks about the size and weight that Roy pretended not to hear. It took the young man four trips to carry the wooden boxes to his second-story dormitory and twenty minutes more to recover from his exertions. But the content of crates far surpassed any expectations he might have had when he asked his Aunt if his sisters had a nice dress to spare.

Chris Mustang’s note was, as she, straightforward and to the point.

Roy-boy,

A dress is useless without shoes, coats and accessories. Your sisters have no need of these as they are from last year. See that they find a good home.

Aunt Chris

All that was left was to wait for Riza to return home from school.

…

“Oh, Riza,” Roy called out, pleased as a preening peacock, “could you come here a moment. I have a favor to ask.”

Roy waited with growing impatience for her to turn the corner and smiled like the Cheshire cat when her indignant scowl fell, quickly replaced by a look of wonder. At least a dozen dresses and coats of all colors and styles were laid over the two vacant beds in the dormitory. An entire jewelry box of ornate rings, bejeweled earnings and long strands of pearls sat casually on Roy’s nightstand. And in the corner of the room, a large crate of purses and high-heeled shoes sat, still waiting to be unpacked.

“My silly sisters thought you might be interested in some of their old dresses,” he started. “And I told them that, of course, you wouldn’t want last year’s styles, but they insisted, and here we are. Might you consider taking these off my hands? I’d hate to send them back.”

Riza approached the dresses with equal parts hesitation and fascination, running the back of her hand along the frilly sleeve of a shimmering, soft pink dress and burying her fingers in a fur-lined coat that, Roy realized, once belonged to his own Aunt. Then, suddenly, her awe turned sour as she shook her head to rid her eyes of the marvels before them.

“I can’t accept these, Roy,” she said sadly. “We can’t afford-”

“Oh, please,” Roy interrupted. He’d prepared himself for this particular argument. “No one would be caught dead in these clothes in Central City. And I realize it will be a hassle to take them in, but I’d hate to have to haul these to the post office. It’s so far away, and the weather is absolutely terrible this time of year.”

Roy hoped against hope that, just this once, she wouldn’t be so stubborn, and he was rewarded by a teary-eyes gaze that caught the reflection of the many metallic bobbles glinting in her new jewelry box. Riza gathered the clothing in her arms and looked at Roy with a heartbreaking grin that stretched the corners of her heart-shaped face.

“Thank you,” was all she said in reply.

Through the lump in his throat, Roy grumbled his own response. “Don’t mention it.”

He couldn’t go to the dance with her and probably would not spend another winter under Berthold’s tutelage. Neither could Roy change his master’s mind once it had been made up nor lessen the burden of her lonely life. But if he could play some small part in a brief moment of happiness, the young man decided he would take that chance, if not for altruistic reasons then selfish ones. If only so that when Riza would smile, all decked out in her finery as she departed for the cotillion, Roy would know he was responsible for it.

He would fight for her well-being, even after she herself had surrendered.

A/N:  Thank you so much for the prompt. I hope you like it even though I took royai and made it young!royai.  Today, I woke up thinking about my grandmother and a particular conversation she had with my father about a prom dress.  So, I guess this one it a little for her as well.  Feel free to send me pairing requests for particular prompts (Fictober or original) via my tumblr, and if you read something you like, don’t hesitate to let me know. Your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, comments, likes and reblogs make my day!

[flourchildwrites]

Can I request either a Royai or Edwin 'Game of Thrones' AU? maybe an action scene or a jousting tournament or something? (I'm not sure if you write a lot of action, but I bet you'd crush it T_T your writing is 11/10)

Witch, Please!  Fictober 2019  (29/30)

A multi-fandom Fictober prompt compilation.  Your wish is my command, but be careful what you ask for.  You just might get it.

For @an-unexpected-trollogy

Prompt:  Game of Thrones-esque Jousting

Fandom:  Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)

Relationship/Pairing:  Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang

Genre:  Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones-esque, Action

Rating:  Teen And Up Audiences

Word Count:  636 words

Read on AO3

Roy lowers his spear and charges toward his opponent, body tucked tight and eyes narrowed. The hooves of his horse beat against the ground in a devastating rhythm, not unlike the drums of war. Cheers and jeers come from the crowd. However, Roy is too enraptured to feel anything besides the pain of prior attempts and the weight of his fine armor.

This exercise is not a punishment. It is a privilege – his reward for agreeing to marry a woman that he cannot love. His heart has been spoken for since the age of 14, but no one can know that. And, in any case, his father, the king, would not care.

Theirs is not a game of hearts. It is a contest of footholes and intrigue in pursuit of a cold iron throne.

The first pass results in a mighty blow to the prince’s shoulder. It pushes him back, and for a split-second in time, Roy’s body is caught in gravity’s pull. He nearly falls from his horse but recovers, gesturing angrily to his squire to retrieve his shield and weaponry.

And this is the first time he takes a good look at his opponent. Their horse is midnight back and impeccably groomed, proudly wearing the luxurious colored silks of a house Roy recognizes but cannot place. The rider seems to be a small man wearing armor two generations old, but there is instinctive dominion in the way they handle their steed. There’s strength in the hands which grasp reigns and weapons with finesse.

Roy’s ego writhes at the idea that he’s been bested, but he enjoys the way his belly burns with something other than remorse over the bride he is obliged to marry.

They go again, and this time, Roy’s spear strikes true, and so does his opponent’s. Both nobles fall from their horses, clutching their wounded bodies. But the prince’s opponent does not stay down for long.

Stumbling, they rise, accompanied by the heavy sound of chainmail, and the modest figure draws a sword. They wait, chest heaving underneath layers of heavy metal for Roy to recover. Though the prince notices his betrothed, Vanessa, clutching a handkerchief to her mouth from the spectator’s stand, he pays her little mind and obliges his opponent in combat, over much objection from crown and crowd.

Swords clash, blow matched for blow, and a wave a nostalgia washes over Roy as muscle memory follows familiar footwork. This is a variant of his training regime, a series of steps known by two people. One of those people, his cousin Maes, has already shuffled off this mortal coil. The other person… She’s standing across from him, panting and in pain, wearing the colors of her mother’s forgotten house.

Roy’s strikes grow softer as he recognizes the feminine grunts, power and weapon prowess all the more impressive for her lack of testosterone. He stops blocking all together when he sees her blazing copper eyes through the slit in her helmet. And finally, bested but not beaten, the prince falls on his knees in front of the woman he loves. She presses her sword to the chain mail covering his throat, and he swears the pressure against his Adam’s apple feels like a lover’s kiss.

There would be worse ways to die than at the hands of Riza Hawkeye, and yet, she does not grant him this mercy. Riza lowers her sword and offers him her hand.

But, for his part, Roy does not take the peace offering. It is all he can do to reach into the belt covering his purple tunic and retrieve a crushed blue winter rose plucked from the royal gardens. So fitting that the flower is meant for Vanessa but given to Riza. So telling that it is crushed by the game his father orchestrated.

A/N:  Thank you for your kind words, @an-unexpected-trollogy!  I was thrilled to see this pop up in my inbox. There’s one huge caveat to this work. I have neither seen nor read Game of Thrones. Everything I know is coming from secondhand info, lol. And on that note, I’d like to thank @teaplease1717. Anyway, feel free to stop by my tumblr, and if you read something you like, don’t hesitate to let me know in whatever way you want. Your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, comments, likes and reblogs make my day! One day more, y'all!

[flourchildwrites]

Witch, Please!  Fictober 2019  (22/31)

A multi-fandom Fictober prompt compilation.  Your wish is my command, but be careful what you ask for.  You just might get it.

Prompt:  “Academia” from Writetober 2019 Prompt List

Fandom:  Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Relationship/Pairing:  Todoroki Shouto/Yaoyorozu Momo

Genre:  Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Quirks

Rating:  Teen And Up Audiences

Word Count:  2,163 words

Read on AO3

Coach All-Might often lectured on the importance of momentum, the desirable quality of motion, which makes a player hard to stop. But the textbook definition did the concept little justice. Over the past two months, Momo had learned that teams built momentum better than individual players. And once acquired, the U.A. heroes pushed their collective energy to the max with smiles plastered across their faces, win or lose.

As her team’s defensive starters lined up on the 20-yard line, Momo’s skin erupted in gooseflesh. It was third down, a passing play no doubt, and all eyes were drawn to the dynamic line up of opposites in the tight end and cornerback positions -- Shiketsu High School’s Inasa Yoarashi and U.A. High’s Shouto Todoroki.

Of course, Todoroki had not started as a cornerback, not until after Coach All-Might had shaken up the lineup last Fall, but Momo wouldn’t have known that by the way he’d dominated the field on defense. Shouto read an opponent’s intentions as if he’d written their playbooks. Cold stone still one minute and hot in pursuit of an interception the next, he’d earned his nickname, IcyHot, the hard way.

A hush descended over the crowd as the play clock began its countdown. Even the cheerleader’s chats quieted in favor of rustling pom-poms and hushed murmurs of anticipation. From the sidelines, Momo held her breath, tugging nervously on the collar of her official polo. As she watched Todoroki, her fingers dipped to stroke the white embroidery that showcased her name and position, Momo Yaoyorozu, Assistant Equipment Manager, U.A. High Heroes Football Team.

Yet, as much as Momo honed in on her favorite cornerback, Shouto's attention was fixed on Inasa.

The boy with bright white and red hair hadn’t been asked to cover the powerhouse tight end, but he did so almost on instinct. U.A.’s defensive line adjusted, players zipping back and forth behind the line of scrimmage, as Shiketsu’s offense arranged and rearranged itself. Shotuo stayed with Inasa, looking for the split-second tell he’d uncovered after watching endless hours film, the one he had whispered in Momo’s ear while she’d helped him into his pads.

As Shiketsu’s quarterback snapped the ball, Shouto’s left eye narrowed, and Momo remembered to breathe, realizing that Todoroki must have found what he was looking for. The cornerback didn’t stop to watch the center snap the ball. He was already darting deep downfield, showcasing athleticism with wide, strong strides as Insa ran an innocuous out route.

But then the tide turned, and Seiji Shishikura made a daring throw from within the collapsing walls of the pocket. The ball headed for Inasa, now poised to catch it near the five-yard line, an inevitable touchdown until... Shouto Todoroki snatched the coveted pigskin out of midair, and through the audience’s collective gasp, Momo swore she heard five incendiary words mumbled in Inasa’s direction before Shouto darted toward Shiketsu’s endzone.

“I’ll be taking that now.”

The crowd roared. Mina Ashido and Toru Hagakure directed the excitement with synchronized jumps and flicks of their pom-poms, The home side of the stadium reveled in their school’s preferred chant -- “Plus Ultra! Plus Ultra!”

Todoroki went down near Shiketsu’s 15-yard line, tackled by a running back whose blond hair spilled out of his helmet. As Shouto fell, Momo tensed again. She felt her heartbeat in her throat but managed to relax when Shouto stood, calmly handing the football to the referee. Unfazed, he jogged toward their sideline, making intense eye contact with his team’s assistant equipment manager.

U.A. had the momentum once again, and the offense took advantage of it. The quarterback, Izuku Midoria, lead the heroes to a resounding homecoming victory over the Shiketsu Captains with the broadest smile on his face.

...

A year ago, Momo could hardly have imagined having more than a handful of friends over after the homecoming game, but now, three-quarters of the football team, half of the cheerleading squad and nearly the entire band was packed into her father’s McMansion. Though Momo had initially scoffed at the idea of beefing up her college applications by serving as assistant equipment manager of the football team, she had to admit that Mr. Aizawa’s advice had been spot on. Not only had she taken initiative by inserting herself into a male-dominated sport, but wallflower Momo had also managed made new friends in her junior year of high school -- a stupendous feat if ever there was one.

And as it turned out, neither Momo’s parents nor her best friend, Kyoka, minded the new additions in their loved one’s life. In fact, no sooner than Momo had asked her father if a small get together after the homecoming game was permissible than he had suddenly announced a burning desire to visit a bed and breakfast with his fiancee that same Friday night. Momo’s mother would check in the following morning, of course, and (for better or worse) Kyoka set up the sound system and arranged for a few kegs of weak beer.

An hour into the party, Momo looked around with astonishment. Everywhere she turned, a different person was smiling back at her, neither poking fun or laughing at her offbeat sense of style. Everyone she talked to responded with words of thanks and promises to be careful with the many valuables scattered throughout the decadent home. The uneasy feeling in Momo’s stomach settled as she sipped a noxious concoction Kyoka called jungle juice.

All felt right with the world. Except…

“Everything ok, Mo?” Kyoka asked, troubled by the way her best friend’s eyebrows were suddenly furrowed.

“Oh, yes,” Momo responded brightly. “I’m just a little overwhelmed by the crowd. Can you watch things while I step out for a sec?”

Kyoka nodded in reply, the fringe of the asymmetrical bob bounced with her dangling earrings.

“Sure thing, Mo.”

Up the steps and through the second level’s main hall, Momo traveled, weaving her way through classmates and kissing couples corralled in dark corners. She found her room unoccupied and breathed a sigh of relief as the door shut behind her with a comforting click. The young woman sat down at her desk and stared out the window. With a fond expression, she watched Bakugo and Kirishima toss a football back and forth.

It had always been a longshot, to be sure. When Momo had invited Todoroki to her party, she’d realized that his father rarely let him attend social events, not even school-sponsored dances or festivals. In fact, Shouto and Momo had attended the same school since first grade and had only become acquainted recently courtesy of a minor equipment malfunction -- a freak accident his father hadn’t hesitated to blow out of proportion.

Enji Todoroki was well-known as severe and obsessive, and perhaps Momo had made unfair assumptions about his son based on that knowledge. But soon, the mystery of IcyHot the football star had unraveled like fine thread in her nimble hands, and Momo found herself reconsidering everything she knew about Shouto Todoroki. Countless conversations later, the young woman didn’t think it was unfair to say that he was kind despite his quiet nature and thoughtful both on and off the football field.

Momo didn’t have to help him take off his pads and ice his bumps and bruises after games, but she did so religiously with a reverence she reserved for, well, nothing else. In return, Shouto taught Momo about football, explaining both general concepts and, eventually, the finer points of the game. And it all felt like it was building toward something more, except there was never an opportunity to...

“Yaoyorozu?”

Momo’s chest tightened as she heard a familiar, gravelly voice. She turned to find the source of the sound, hardly believing her eyes. There he stood, an impressive sight, though awkward, in khaki pants and a white polo shirt. Taut muscles fought against the thin cotton, and Momo fingers grasped the folds of her pale pink maxi skirt. Her high top converses tilted inward, toes curling within as she thought about how he sighed when she pressed warm compresses against his sore muscles.

Would it be completely inappropriate to trace the edges of the burn mark over his left eye?

Most likely, yes. But that didn’t stop Momo from thinking about it.

“You came!” she exclaimed, rising from the chair to greet the boy she definitely had not fantasized about in this very room. Momo gripped the nearest post of her bed to steady herself. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Jirou said you’d be up here. Can I come in?”

“Of course. Have a seat.”

Warily, Shouto entered the room, softly closing the door behind him. He leaned against the endboard of Momo’s 4-poster bed and looked around expectedly.

“Your house is-”

“An eyesore,” she interrupted. “I know. My mom took all the taste in their divorce. Dad doesn’t know the meaning of understated, but it’s home.”

“I wasn’t going to say ‘eyesore,’” Shouto asserted, though Momo noticed he didn’t disagree. “Have your parents been divorced for long?”

Momo nodded. “Since middle school.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. They’re much better off as friends, especially now that dad is engaged and mom’s remarried. I like my stepmoms a lot.”

At that, Shouto stifled a small chuckle.

“What?” Momo asked.

“I was wondering if your dad’s fiancee has better taste.”

“Afraid not,” Momo laughed. “I don’t think she’s ever met a fleur de lis she didn’t like, but by the time they get married, I’ll be out of here.”

“Damn,” Shouto added in mock disappointment, “I was so looking forward to the wedding pictures, seeing you all dressed up.”

Under the cover of semi-darkness, heat spread to the apples of Momo’s cheeks, and a strange feeling burned in her belly when she spied the green cocktail dress hung over her closet door. Dare she be so bold?

“Well, you could just come to the homecoming dance tomorrow,” she stated, eyes fixed on the plush carpet. “I’ll be taking tickets by the door, but I think I might be able to step away for a dance or two. And I’d like to spend more time with you, talking like this, you know?”

The grin faded slowly from Shouto’s face as his gaze also drifted to an uninteresting patch of carpet. “You know my dad’s strict. If I ask to go, he’ll come up with some conflict. I had to tell him I was watching game film here tonight just to get away.”

Momo tried to pretend she wasn’t disappointed. “Oh… He believed that?”

“The only thing good about my dad’s football fixation is that he assumes everyone else is just as obsessed as he is.”

For a moment, all was silent as the letdown washed over Momo. From the opposite side of her room, she could hear the ornate cuckoo clock ticking, counting the precious seconds she wasted in Todoroki’s presence. However, Momo refused to back down so quickly, not when the stars had aligned so perfectly to grant her this moment. Not when Shouto was in her room at her party, sitting beside her, completely unsupervised, on her bed.

This was Momo's moment.  She'd be a fool not to seize it.

“Todoroki, I-”

Whatever words Momo wanted to say were silenced by Shouto’s thumb pressed against her lips. His hand gently cupped the cheek, and she leaned into his warm touch, wary of the mesmerizing mismatched eyes that threatened to steal her senses.

“I’m not very good with my words, Yaoyorozu,” he said in earnest. “But I’d like to ask you if I could...”

“Could what?”

“I mean, if you would be agreeable, I’d like to…”

“Go on.”

Shouto growled in frustration and pressed both hands against the endboard. “Everyone makes this sound so easy,” he groaned. “I never seem to know how to say the thing I mean when I have the chance.”

Momo steeled her nerves as her stomach practically dissolved in a heap of butterflies. It seemed she did dare tonight more than she ever had before.

“Would you like to kiss me, Shouto?”

“God, yes!”

He took his lips to hers with an urgency that Momo could not have anticipated, and the world as she knew it faded away, save the small space the young couple shared. If kisses could talk, this one would have been eloquent. It would have told Momo that he’d always carried a little torch for her, for as long as he could rightly remember while reciting the loveliest verses of poetry known to mankind. But, of course, without words, the liplock was equally pleasant, capped off by a sigh of relief from both sides.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he said, forehead pressed against hers.

Momo saw no room to argue but in the interest of full disclosure… “Then why don’t you do it again. Maybe I can figure it out.”

Momo and Shouto’s momentum wasn’t slowing down anytime soon.

A/N:  So, for academia, we have my hero academia... without the hero! Yep, it's a quirk-less AU featuring Todomomo (because why not)! I've written a lot of that this month, and I kinda love it. By now, you all know the drill. Feel free to send me pairing requests for particular prompts (Fictober or original) via my tumblr, and if you read something you like, don't hesitate to let me know. Your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, comments, likes and reblogs make my day!

[flourchildwrites]

Witch, Please!  Fictober 2019  (30/30)

A multi-fandom Fictober prompt compilation.  Your wish is my command, but be careful what you ask for.  You just might get it.

Prompt:  “All Hallows Eve” from Writetober 2019 Prompt List

Fandom:  Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Relationship/Pairing:  Todoroki Shouto/Yaoyorozu Momo

Genre:  Trick or Treating

Rating:  Teen And Up Audiences

Word Count:  804 words

Read on AO3

“Trick or Treat!”

Halloween doesn’t make sense to Shouto; however, it isn’t the idea of pretending to be someone else that he can’t comprehend.  Though he isn’t as exuberant as Midoria, Shouto idolized All Might. In fact, he still does. It’s natural for kids to have such dreams.

Shouto can picture himself as a child, turning the corners of a happy home in loose socks and a towel tied his neck like a cape.  His mother would have laughed, and his father would have smirked, peering thoughtfully over the top of his morning paper. Of course, this false memory is nothing more than a poor imitation of normality, strung together from odd ends of pop culture and sitcom reruns.

But it’s a nice thought nonetheless.

No, it isn’t the costumes and pretend play that baffles Shouto.  It isn’t even the flash mobs, zombie runs or themed pub crawls. If U.A. had not kept him so busy, he might have joined in.

It’s the child, a little boy of maybe five or six, who stands in front of him dressed in a navy blue jumpsuit with burgundy wrist guards that causes him unease.  Brown eyes bright with awe, he rocks back and forth, teeming with excitement in his snow-white boots. The child’s movements strain the gray neckpiece connecting the high collar of his costume, and lower down, a brown utility belt jingles with every subtle movement.

Impressed, Shouto scans the child’s heart-shaped face, noting the wig as well as the makeup applied over his left eye to mimic Shouto’s infamous scar. It’s hard to fault the child or his proud mother for their fastidious attention to detail.  Yet, Shouto cannot help but wonder if they’d feel the same if they knew the story behind his mark.

He keeps his silence and forces a small smile, dropping a piece of candy into the kid’s plastic pumpkin along with a pre-autographed card.  Both treats hit the bottom of the container with a hollow thump. It’s only his twentieth visitor, but Shouto has already grown tired of tricks, treats and the children who’ve swarmed the decorated auditorium.

In true U.A. style, the event is ridiculously “Plus Ultra,” from Tokoyami’s Haunted House to the three-legged race officiated by Iida.  Even Bakugo has a part to play, though he has no lines. Ground Zero merely stands by Midnight’s side as she welcomes the crowds, and perhaps it is progress enough that he isn’t yelling obscenities over the sound of Earphone Jack’s festive music.

Shouto’s directive is to be more personable, and to this end, he is paired with Creati, handing out candy on a mock front porch.  So disarming is she that sometimes Shouto forgets that the Yaoyorozu family is old, old money. So kind, that from time to time, villains underestimate her S-class intelligence.

He’s realized recently that she takes advantage of their ignorance.  But not tonight.

Tonight, her smile is as open and unguarded as ever.  Bright eyes blaze in midnight shades of gray offset by the crimson cape of her hero’s costume and the gold belt glinting beneath it.  Flashes of skin capture Shouto’s unbidden attention, but moreover, he finds himself enthralled by the way she connects with both the students and parents.  They might put Shouto on a pedestal as a potential successor to All Might, but the public feels like they know Momo Yaoyorozu.

And sometimes Shouto is jealous.  Of what, he isn’t sure.

“Has the hero Shouto come to help me eat all this candy?” she asks the small boy.

Delight spreads across the child’s face when he realizes she’s talking to him and not the semi-pro handing out candy alongside her.  He happily thrusts his hand inside the plastic jack-o’-lantern and offers Momo an orange KitKat, which she politely declines. Instead, she produces a box of pocky and offers mini-Shouto a slender stick.  They laugh and share their sweets. Momo’s tongue darts out to greet the rich chocolate, and Shouto finds himself watching and wondering.

In the space of a second, the young man’s mind flits back to his earlier reverie.  But now, he is no longer the child; Shouto is the father, sipping a cup of tea, legs tucked under the kotatsu.  A little girl with split black and white hair sprints outdoors. She catches snowflakes in her gloved hands and spins as the flurries continue to fall.  Momo is seated next to him, watching their daughter.

It’s pleasant and disarming -- the precise qualities Momo exudes despite the danger lurking just out of sight and mind. He shakes the pesky thought off and continues to attend to the never-ending line of lookalikes. If it is jealousy Shouto feels, he hopes it will not show.  Not for the first time, he wonders if these wishful daydreams are truly tricks or treats.

A/N:  And that's a wrap, folks! Here's some light Todomomo to round out my Fictober 2019 challenge. Perhaps this is a couple of days late, but I'm calling this project a win. 30/31 is pretty good! A million thanks to everyone who followed this collection and encouraged me along the long, long road. As always, your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, comments, likes and reblogs give me life. Also, don't be a stranger and check out my tumblr. Send me questions, comments or whatever else may be on your mind.

[flourchildwrites]

Prompt: Mustang and Black Hayate + "old age"

Witch, Please!  Fictober 2019  (12/31)

A multi-fandom Fictober prompt compilation.  Your wish is my command, but be careful what you ask for.  You just might get it.

For @an-unexpected-trollogy

Prompt:  “Old Age”

Fandom:  Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types

Relationship/Pairing:  Roy Mustang & Black Hayate (featuring Olivier Mira Armstrong)

Genre:  Post-Canon, Family Life, Politics

Rating:  Teen And Up Audiences

Word Count:  1,080 words

Read on AO3

It wasn’t often that Roy Mustang woke up alone, but when Riza left, she took more than a suitcase with her. Their townhouse on Decatur Avenue felt frazzled and off-kilter that Autumn morning. As Nanny Armitage coaxed the rambunctious twins into matching pairs of overalls and set about serving breakfast, Black Hayate had a rare accident on the entryway rug. Roy rolled over to the sound of impassioned squealing as one of the children (his cenz were on Mae) toddled through the mess much to Nanny’s chagrin.

She appeared at the foot of the bed wearing a scowl that jolted him wide awake. Roy wondered if Norland College taught classes on how to scare human beings out of their wits with facial expressions alone.

“Please get up, Prime Minister. It’s half past six,” she announced with flawless, neutral intonation. The middle-aged woman tapped the face of her wristwatch as she watched her employer draw a hand across his eyes. “Professor Hawkeye-Mustang would not have you sleeping in on such an important day, and the dog has already made a mess in the hallway. Your assistance is required.”

Roy wracked the warped to-do list in his brain for the significance of this particular day. Fuzzy dates clicked, and he discarded them just as fast. June 7 was Riza’s birthday; December 21 was their anniversary. The twins were born on April 19. Nanny’s contact would need to be renewed on January 1, and the election was not until November. But the debate…

The debate was today, and he had an important meeting at 8 a.m. sharp.

Roy jumped in the shower and flicked the knob upward. Freezing water greeted him, but Roy did not have time to wait for the temperature to adjust itself. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, and before him stood the sometimes gargantuan task of making himself appear as attractive and energetic as contestants half his age.

Getting older had its perks – experience, connections and financial stability, to name a few, but those pastries his kids loved so much were a bitch to burn off. And if he didn’t get a move on, stomach pudge would be the least of his problems.

…

Heads turned and whispers loomed as the Prime Minister arrived at work that morning. Roy wondered if taking his dog to work was a mistake but had found it impossible to leave Black Hayate deep in the trenches of childrearing. Riza had often taken her pup into the office when the Shiba Inu was a feisty little tyke. But now patches of white marked their dog’s diminished coat, and it was impossible to ignore the pleading look in Hayate’s old puppy dog eyes when he had brought Roy his leash that morning. As the prime minister sympathetically peeled stickers from his dog’s fur, he had known that old Hayate needed a break just as much as he did.

And, honestly, if that was all he wanted, Roy was happy to oblige.

But when Roy turned the corner to enter his office, shrugging off the jacket of his three-piece suit, he found his secretary somewhat shaken.

“Kain,” he greeted, brows knit with concern, “is everything ok?”

Kain swallowed hard, eyes darting toward the door. “She’s here,” he said ominously. “She’s been waiting for 20 minutes, and she insisted on bringing her sword through security.”

“Oh.” It was the only appropriate response that Roy could muster. “I’ll get right to it then.”

After a cleansing breath, Roy thrust open the door to his office and found the most indomitable person he’d ever met waiting for him with a pressed military uniform and an intimidating scowl. Her polished saber glittered prominently at her side. Roy missed the simplicity of knowing what he would wear sometimes, but it had been many years since he’d been tasked to take up his old ignition gloves. For this, he was immeasurably thankful.

“Olivier,” he greeted, immediately recognizing his mistake. “General Armstong,” he corrected. “So lovely to see you again. Tell me, how are things at Briggs?”

Armstrong’s brow twitched with annoyance.

“Spare me your small talk, Mustang,” she said. “I’m here about the endorsement, and I’d like to stay on topic. I’m sure your children and my family are doing well enough without us having to discuss how well they, in fact, are.”

“Right,” Roy responded, sitting down at his desk. “To the point, then. Will you endorse me for reelection?”

Olivier took a deep breath. Uh oh. That wasn’t good.

“You know the climate at Briggs is complicated, Mustang,” she explained, not having actually answered. “My people are putting their lives on the line every day, and Drachma grows bolder with every passing season. Your policy of pacifism is chum for them, Prime Minister. They’ve been testing the waters lately. In the past, our greatest military assets were our State Alchemists. Without that threat and considering Briggs’ position on the front lines, I am growing concerned.”

Mustang scowled. This has not been what he wanted to hear, today of all days.

“I cannot support the reintegration of the State Alchemist program within our military branch,” Mustang stated. “No matter how good it sounds on paper. I have my reasons, General. You know that better than most.”

Again, Armstrong’s silence spoke volumes.

“I am withholding my endorsement for the time being,” Olivier announced, “but I have no plans to support your opposition either.”

Despite the terse mood of the room, Black Hayate trotted up to the General, and the frown etched into her timeless features fell. She discarded her right glove and scratched affectionately between his ears. Olivier’s eyes softened as he leaned into her surprisingly soft touch.

“I like dogs,” she announced. “They’re loyal and smart, especially this one. Your wife must have an eye for those characteristics.”

Roy smiled in spite of himself. “Yeah, Riza always has.”

“I offered her a job once,” she added almost apropos of nothing, “but she turned me down cold. Said that she felt her place was watching your back, that it always had been and always would be.”

The grin on Roy’s face grew larger. He hadn’t known that.

“Once they called you a dog of the military. Now they’re calling you old and afraid of your own shadow.”

Armstrong glanced up toward Roy. Her penetrating blue eyes sent a shiver down his spine.

“Prove them wrong, Mustang,” she said. “Show them that old dogs can have new tricks.”

A/N:  Thank you for the prompt. I hope you like it as much as I like these sort of asks popping up in my tumblr inbox. Feel free to send me pairing requests for particular prompts (Fictober or original) via my tumblr, and if you read something you like, don’t hesitate to let me know. Your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, comments, likes and reblogs make my day!

[flourchildwrites]

Witch, Please!  Fictober 2019  (4/31)

A multi-fandom Fictober prompt compilation.  Your wish is my command, but be careful what you ask for.  You just might get it.

For @teaplease1717

Prompt:  “Vampire” from Writetober 2019 Prompt List

Fandom:  Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Relationship/Pairing:  Todoroki Shouto/Yaoyorozu Momo

Genre:  Romance, Historical AU

Rating:  Teen And Up Audiences

Word Count:  986 words

Read on AO3

They say monsters exist only in fairy tales, but Momo has always had an eye for creatures that hide in plain sight. She catches a glimpse of him across the candlelit dance floor and follows, setting aside her glass as if the wine turned suddenly to water. Despite the ornate masks and excessive plumage of the masquerade ball, there is no mistaking Shouto’s otherworldly countenance. His mismatched eyes and hair are poorly concealed by his dark costume, but perhaps it is the very act of not wanting to been seen that makes the memory of him transparent in other’s minds.

Momo could not forget Shouto if she tried. They’ve been dancing in the dark for years now, a sultry tango predicated on a word whispered in the shadows of high society:  Vampire.

He catches her as she turns a corner in the garden, and but for the finger pressed to her lips, she would have yelped in surprise. Momo’s dark eyes flutter shut as she takes in his scent. Her fingers intertwine themselves in the fine hair at the nape of his neck as his hand caresses the curve of her hips, sliding upward to rest at her waist.

“Where have you been?” she asks, too loudly for his liking. “I was worried. It’s been weeks.”

“Away,” he explains vaguely, eyes shifting to and fro. The frown on his lips is palpable, but his words ring true. “I have missed you, Signorina Yaoyorozu. Though you should be running from me, not to me.”

Undeterred, Momo leans into his touch as the fingers which quieted her lips trail across her cheek to cup her face. Where a fire seems to burn over every inch of the young woman’s skin, his touch is cold and hard. Momo’s chest falls and rises within the corseted costume she wears, white as light to offset his dark. She presses herself against him but does not hope for the telltale tick-tock of a beating heart. That longing left her not long after their affair started -- when she first became aware of his true nature.

“You must be hungry,” she whispers into his ear, without precaution or preamble.

Momo draws her hands behind her head to unclasp her black choker. The velvety fabric falls to reveal two neat puncture marks, red-rimmed and scabbed but otherwise clean and stuck somewhere between healing and scarring. Rather than excited, Shouto seems to resent the sight, and the eager grin fades from Momo’s face.

“I’m sorry,” she says, stumbling over her words. She cannot deny that she has craved the feeling of his lips on her neck, sucking at the flesh and drawing out her life force. While there is violence in the way he feeds, there is also pleasure and intimacy -- moans that rattle in her throat as her senses dull, shutting out the world and halting the passage of time. “Isn’t this what you came for? To feed?”

Shouto stares at her quizzically, and Momo can see the gears turning in his mind, testing an idea that he is hesitant to speak into being. Behind her mask, Momo blushes. She fastens the choker as fast as her fumbling fingers will allow and adjusts the band to cover his mark.

“We cannot continue like this,” Shouto states with unreadable intonation.

Momo’s heart sinks. She tries to pull him out toward the light, to enjoy a dance or walk amongst the crowd if only for a moment. But Shouto is unmoved, a perfect statue of a human being decked out in his finery.

“I will come to you soon,” he says, heterochromatic eyes flashing silver and turquoise from the cover of the shadows. Momo doesn’t believe him, but he is gone before she can protest.

...

Momo is lovely in her best dress. Exquisite fabric, the color of spun sunshine, pours down her sides, and her bodice is not without compliment, showcasing an elegant coupling of decorative cords and pearls. Yet, as her handmaiden ties the last ribbon on her sleeve, Momo’s frown deepens. Her eyes remain downcast as she descends the staircase.

She supposes she is lucky to be betrothed to a count, but given the opportunity, she would gladly have escaped alongside Shouto.

“Momo!” Her father’s voice fills the high ceiling of their small ballroom, beckoning her downward to meet her fate. A Yaoyorozu to her core, Momo is poised even as she feels the weight of the future settle squarely on her shoulders.

At the base of the landing, Her mother draws near, pulling Momo toward her fiance and whispering words of wisdom in her ear. “Greet your future husband, dear. He is foreign, but I think you’ll find him most agreeable.”

Momo’s solemn eyes flit upward, and she is immediately confronted by familiar shades of gray and blue. Before her stands Count Todoroki, or so her father proclaims. He is a little-known nobleman who made his fortune in trade and other such commerce. Her father explains that he suffers from a rare illness which obliges him to shy away from public life, but Momo is no longer listening.

With barely contained joy, her onyx eyes trace the outline of his strong jaw and the slicked-back ends of his red and white hair. She notes the peculiar way he’s pulled the corners of his mouth over a pair of sharp fangs and blushes when she notices that he regards her with the same passion. Before her father can utter another word, Count Todoroki grasps his intended’s hand and presses the smooth back to his cold lips. The shiver which runs the length of Momo’s spine has little to do with the temperature.

“Have faith in me, la mia bella principessa?” he whispers in flawless Italian. “It is not your blood that I want.”

Whether he is a man or a monster, Momo decides that she will love Shouto until her heart stops.

And possibly thereafter.

A/N:  Some prompts have well-written character development, and some just have vampires being vampires. This chapter is the latter, and I regret nothing. As always, do not hesitate to send me pairing requests for particular Fictober prompts via my tumblr, and if you read something you like, please let me know. Your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, comments, likes and reblogs are so appreciated!

[flourchildwrites]

Witch, Please!  Fictober 2019  (21/31)

A multi-fandom Fictober prompt compilation.  Your wish is my command, but be careful what you ask for.  You just might get it.

Prompt:  “Trapped” from Writetober 2019 Prompt List

Fandom:  Miraculous Ladybug

Relationship/Pairing:  Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug

Genre:  Seven Minutes in Heaven, Possible Reveal

Rating:  Teen And Up Audiences

Word Count:  1,371 words

Read on AO3

The rules were simple. Or so she thought.

With 6 minutes and 50 seconds of heaven left, Marinette Dupain-Cheng felt less like a superhero in disguise and more like a regular 15-year-old, forced into a closet by her best friend after a shady spin of the ol’ bottle. With or without the assistance of her kwami, Marinette thought she might be able to escape if things got too awkward. Or perhaps, she could just ooze underneath the closet door when the brilliance of Adrien Agrest turned her into a puddle of teenage angst.

It was one thing to pine for Adrien from afar. It was quite another to find oneself sitting face-to-face with him while swatting at the ends of Alya’s dresses and trying not to crush her best friend’s shoes.

On second thought, Marinette positioned herself squarely on top of a pair of inexpensive loafers and wiggled back and forth to pin several hanging garments behind her. She should have suspected this was a setup from the moment the words, 'seven minutes in heaven,' left Alya’s lips. The only mystery was how the budding journalist had managed to get Adrien, of all people, to play this cringe-worthy middle-school game.

As for Marinette, well, Alya hadn’t exactly given her a choice. And for as long as Marinette could remember, in real life, her luck had always been wanting. She’d just have to bear the awkwardness with dignity, praying for the small mercy of an akuma attack to interrupt Alya’s party. But the electric pulses of Nino’s subwoofer coming through the closet door did not sound promising.

Marinette glanced at her watch. 6 minutes and 40 seconds left. 39… 38… 37...

The incognito superhero wondered if the door was really locked. Nearly 30 seconds of crushing silence were punishment enough for Adrien, and Marinette smiled awkwardly as she grasped at loose ends of prospective dialogue. The creases of her forced grin pressed into her cheeks, and she swore that Adrien would be able to hear her heartbeat as it thumped loudly in her chest.

“Listen, Marinette...” Adrien said. He broke the conversation embargo with that easy grin of his, the one that used to stare at Marinette from the pictures she had plastered all over her bedroom walls. Now, they sat in a box at the bottom drawer of her desk, and her desktop background had changed to a picture of Kitty Section, featuring their fantastic lead guitarist, Luca.

Over the past few months, lots of things had changed.

Marinette shook her head to clear the emotional cobwebs. It wasn’t fair to think about Luca in Adrien’s presence. Or vice versa.

“... I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. The way Nino explained the rules, all we have to do is stay in here for 7 minutes. 6 now, I think.”

Well, technically, it was 6 minutes and 12 seconds, but who was counting.

“Yeah,” Marinette laughed nervously. She concentrated on forming sentences, enunciating each word as if the well-being of Paris hinged upon her lacking linguistic talents. Thoughts of Kagami and the mysterious girl Adrien had mentioned on their way back from the wax museum flooded her mind, and for whatever reason, these thoughts helped. Speaking of which…

“I just thought that Kagami might not be happy about a game like this. She might get the wrong idea.”

“Why would she get the wrong idea?”

Bless his naive, homeschooled heart. The way he said that made it sound like he really didn’t know.

“Y-You know, it’s seven m-minutes in heaven,” Marinette shrugged, shocked that her words hadn’t failed her completely. “We’re supposed to m-ma…”

“-make out?” Adrien supplied. Through the cover of darkness, Marinette could swear she saw him smirking. “Or talk, tell secrets. Whatever we can both agree to. Why would Kagami get the wrong idea?”

Did she really have to say it? Did she really have to give the fact that Kahami was perfect for Adrien more purchase by speaking it into being?

“B-because she likes you, of course. And she’s my friend. I don’t want to hurt her.”

There was a beat of silence wherein the walls seemed to tremble as if they could hear and understand the significance of this simple conversation. Marinette’s words passed between the two like a boomerang, back and forth, and for a moment, she believed that Adrien would heed her warning. Perhaps, he would leave her in the closet, alone once again with her secrets. But he shifted closer, inching his slim legs forward, making no move to grasp the doorknob. Instead, the young model reached for a stray lock of hair that had fallen free of Marinette’s trademark pigtails. He paused just shy of touching her.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he whispered.

She felt herself nod as his fingers tucked the raven-blue strands behind her ear, brushing a ladybug earring with a feather-light touch.

“I like your hair when it’s down,” Adrian confessed, “I like that I know something about you that most people don’t, and I’d like to know more.”

Sweet Kwami! Did he realize what he was doing to her? Did shy, pure Adrien Agreste know that he sounded the smallest bit cocky when he said things like that. Almost like a certain cat-like companion that Ladybug had come to treasure.

And Marinette would be lying if she said she did not miss Chat Noir’s friendly flirting. After years of discouraging his affection, she expected to feel solace in the absence of his playful advances. Instead, there was only wanting silence where pet names should have been. The occasional fist bump did little to fill the void that Chat’s grandiose gestures left.

“And what about Kagami?” she asked again.

And what about Luca? Shouldn’t she be asking herself that question too?

“I like her,” Adrien said. His pale eyelashes fluttered over emerald green irises, as coy and self-assured as she’d ever seen them. “But I haven’t made up my mind just yet. There’s another girl I like.”

Marinette inwardly scoffed at her terrible, terrible luck. Here they were, trapped in a closet. His legs bent over hers. So close that they might just kiss on accident. And not only had she brought up Kagami -- twice -- but now Adrien was confessing a second crush to her.

She absolutely wouldn’t, absolutely couldn’t ask…

“Who?”

The amused laugh that purred in Adrien’s throat was unexpected (though not unwelcome), to say the least.

“I’m afraid that’s all the secrets I can spill today, my lady. Besides, I think our time is just about-”

What transpired next would remain a mystery to Marinette for - she was sure - as long as she lived. And seeing as Kagami had both a jealous streak as well as expertise with swords, the teenage girl might not survive their next meeting. But hearing the phrase “my lady” again had hit Marinette hard. An atrophied part of her heart sprang to life as she leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on Adrien’s cheek.

Though the gesture was not romantic or passionate, her lips his skin, all soft and supple flesh. But suddenly, Marinette could smell the night air in Adrien’s hair, and with her cheek pressed so close, she could feel the slight indentation where a mask might have sat. Quickly, the two teens pulled apart, and Marinette stared at Adrien with nostalgic eyes, feeling as if it was the first time she’d ever seen him as more than a sum of pieces and parts.

For a moment, she thought he might have felt the same.

“My lady, I-”

“Time’s up!”

The closet door flew open, and light stung Marinette’s eyes. Alya Cesaire stood proudly at the threshold of her closet, with one hand still on the doorknob and the other on her hip. Though initially disappointed not to catch the couple mid-act, the fox miraculous holder allowed room for pause. She searched the shell-shocked expression on Marinette’s face and smirked with a satisfied set to her jaw.

“Everything alright in there?” she asked, winking in Marinette’s direction. “You two sure the cat didn’t get into the cream.”

The rules to this game of Chat and Ladybug were so much more complicated than Marinette could ever have guessed.

A/N:   I really wasn't sure this one would be done in time, but I’m thrilled to post it anyway. I'm so in love with the MLB fics that are able to bring the love square full circle (so to speak, lol). I hope I was able to do it some justice. By now, you all know the drill. Feel free to send me pairing requests for particular prompts (Fictober or original) via my tumblr, and if you read something you like, don't hesitate to let me know. Your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, comments, likes and reblogs make my day!