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just-another-ficwriter · 4 years

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Cruel Summer - Part Three

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Reader

Words: 3000ish

Warnings: Lying?

Summary: When Katy asks you for a favour the last thing you thought you’d be doing was suit shopping with Sweet Pea and Fangs. With the day brining back flashbacks of your high school prom, you turn to Betty for support.

Read part two here

Bad, bad boy, shiny toy with a price, you know that I bought it.

The next three weeks are a whirlwind of wedding planning and maid of honour duties.

Of course Katy had asked both Veronica and Betty to be her bridesmaids too alongside her sisters and your time had been filled with colour schemes and flower arrangements and dress shopping.

Ironically the more time you spent with Katy the less you thought of Sweet Pea. Over the last few weeks you’d manage to convince yourself that your past together didn’t matter, that Katy’s happiness meant much more to you than a teenage romance and things had returned to some sense of normality.

That was until Katy showed up at your door, fists pounding against the wood work, pleading to be let in.

“Morning!” She bounced into your apartment, a flurry of red lipped smiles and high heels, far too happy for how early it was. “I brought breakfast.”

You eyed the box suspiciously as she slides it on the table, busying herself by grabbing two plates while you tried to remember if you had plans with her today. Her knowledge of your apartment, even after a year away, making you laugh. “What are you doing here Katy-Kat?”

“Less of the nickname.” She scalds your despite her growing smile. “Can’t I just surprise my best friend with breakfast?”

“You can.” You accept the breakfast wrap she’s dangling in your face, taking a large bite before nodding in approval. “But this isn’t just any breakfast. It’s my favourite which means you want something.”

“Okay maybe a little favour.” She bats her eyelashes innocently, her smile never wavering as she holds her hand up showing a small gap between her finger and thumb.

“I knew it!” You laugh at the look on her face, the two of you had so easily fallen back into you past selves the last few weeks, your friendship old and familiar.

“I was hoping that you’d go with Fangs and Nate to pick out their suits.” Your stomached dropped at the mention of his name and you were sure if you were eating at that point you would have choked. You no longer had an appetite as the blissful bubble you felt around you seconds before began to shatter into reality.

“For the wedding?” Your voice was an octave higher, your eyes down on your plate as you hoped she wouldn’t notice.

“No to lounge around in the house.” You didn’t have to look at her to know she was rolling her eyes. “Of course for the wedding!”

“Correct me if I’m wrong but I don’t think it’s traditional for the maid of honour to pick out the men’s suits.” You grimaced as you took another, now unwanted, bite of your breakfast as you desperately tried to get out of it.

“Well I can’t trust Nate and Fangs to get it right by themselves can I?” Katy too was trying her best to make you see her side of things. She sighs deeply for affect before shrugging her shoulders. “Plus it’s bad luck for me to see the suit before the big day.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s meant to be the other way around.” You couldn’t help but laugh, maybe it was down to the lengths she was going to just to convince you to do this, or maybe it was just because of the situation you were in.

“You’re right, but I’ve got a family lunch and they won’t get the right colours, and Fangs isn’t the best of influences, who even names their kid ‘Fangs’-“

“Okay okay.” You threw you hands up in the air, desperate just to stop her rambling. “I’ll do it.”

She squealed, instantly rushing around your breakfast bar to her wrap her arms around your shoulders, squeezing your face to hers. “You’re the best!”

It takes you a little longer than it should to get out of your car once you’ve reached the suit shop.

One last song on the radio.

A quick text to Ronnie.

A very important scroll through Facebook, then Instagram and then Facebook again.

Absolutely anything to avoid going inside.

It doesn’t take long for Fangs to find you, his face is practically shoved right up against the driver side window as he taps softly on the glass.

He’s offering you a large goofy smile but you recognise the look in his eyes. It’s the one you’re sure that’s mirrored in your own, a strong sense of uncertainty with a hint of embarrassment and a touch of doubt.

He’s wrapping you up in his arms the minute your feet touch the pavement. You’re not sure whether it’s out of pity or he’s just happy to see you, either way it’s comforting.

In an odd wave of deja vu you spot Sweet Pea over his shoulder, just like you had over Katy’s at the engagement party. You watch as his chest rises and falls with a sudden sharp in take of breath, his eyes locked on to the two of you.

You force your gaze away, burying your head further into the side of Fang’s neck, your heart rate accelerating.

Maybe you couldn’t do this after all.

Maybe you could just turn around and leave, forgetting about this whole thing.

“You’re the last person I expected to see today.” Fangs’ laugh is soft in your ear as he keeps an arm around your waist and directs you towards Sweet Pea, almost as if he can read your mind.

“You and me both.” You brace yourself for what’s about to come, each step closer a little more shaky.

“Hey.” He smiles politely, the two of you stepping in for a hug before both deciding to step back and opt for a hand shake instead. His lips turn to a frown as you watch him struggle with his thoughts. “This is awkward isn’t it?”

“No no it’s fine.” You shake your head in protest, your words sounding a little too forced. You’re not sure whether you’re trying to convince him or yourself as your hands begin to fiddle with the strap on your bag. “This is going to be fine.”

“You guys are right.” There’s a ghost of smile on Fangs’ face, the arm around your waist pulling you more towards him as the other falls around Sweet Pea’s shoulders. “Totally not awkward at all. Do you think we should have invited Toni too?”

The three of you laugh, a sound that warms your heart and eases your nerves. You can’t help but smack the back of his head right before Sweet Pea playfully pushes him towards the shop entrance.

Maybe you could do this after all.

You can’t help but be amazed once you’re inside, your eyes widening at the showcases of elaborate rows of expensive looking suits with backgrounds of long length mirrors and sleek changing rooms. Even Sweet Pea and Fangs seem impressed at the sight, there’s no doubt in your mind that Katy had picked out the place.

From the minute you step through the doors, you’re being ushered around by a formal shop assistant. But even his looks of distaste don’t stop the pair from trying on the worst outfits they can find and acting like they’re fifteen again.

Your fits of giggles don’t help your case either as more employees shoot daggers your way.

And just when you’re pretty sure they’re about to throw you out, Sweet Pea appears in a tailored, deep blue, 3 piece and you lose all track of your thoughts.

Now all you can see is the way the jacket fits just right over his biceps and the way the crisp white of his shirt makes his skin look even more tanned than before.

Minutes pass until you realise he’s holding a bow tow tie in his hands, accompanied by a frustrated look on his face.

“Stupid thing.” He’s mumbling away to himself, staring down at the item between his fingers like it’s offended him.

“Need some help?” He lifts his head to you, he knows he should say no but he can’t think of any reasons why.

“If you don’t mind.” His smile is sheepish as you accept the bow tie from him, leaning up on your tip toes to tuck it under his collar.

Sweet Pea feels the need to look away but he can’t, he just stares down at you while you focus on the task at hand. You force you fingers to stay steady, ignoring the heat that’s burning its way up your neck and face and let your mind wonder.

“Damn thing!” The anger in his words bounces off the trailer walls and has you running to him scared something’s wrong.

You laugh when you see him, his hands are fiddling with his tie, a scowl on his face but you can’t help but find it rather endearing. “Need a hand?”

He wants to curse and complain about how stupid he thinks this whole thing is but all his words are lost when his eyes land on you. His heart beats a little too loud in his chest but all he can focus on how is beautiful you look in your dress.

The light in the dimly lit bedroom catches the sequins on the fabric just right and all the irritation he felt just moments before melt away.

“You look incredible Sweetheart.” His grin is lopsided and full of love as he continues to stare at you like you’re the only girl in the world.

You can’t help but laugh, grabbing at his hanging tie, bringing him closing with one shift tug so his lips can meet yours.

You can feel him smile into the kiss, the palm of his hands flat against the small of your back before they travel south, just briefly before he’s pulling away with a smug wink.

“We’re going to be late for prom.”

You’re staring at him, lost in the memory only coming back to reality when you feel a hand on your wrist, his touch just barely grazing over your skin.

And in that moment, just for one tiny fraction of a second, you’re 18 again and it’s hard to remember that anything’s changed at all.

Until Fangs is bursting out of us his own dressing room, a similar suit on, ready to say something but snaps his mouth shut when he sees the scene in front of him.

The two of you stumble backwards, the bow tie still hanging around his neck as the air around you thickens. Sweet Pea looks at him like he’s just been caught doing something wrong, his heart beating so fast it feels almost painful in his chest.

He utters something you don’t quite catch and then he’s gone, half running, half stumbling back to his changing room and leaving you with a confused Fangs.

You can feel his eyes burning into you but you refuse to look at him, too busy trying to find something to distract yourself with. A part of you curses out Sweet Pea for leaving you to deal with this alone.

What ever this was.

“What was that?” There’s a sharpness in his tone that makes you wish you had the answer.

“What was what?” You want to ignore it, pretend the last few minutes hadn’t happened but he won’t let you.

“Cut the crap.” He’s angry at you, you can see it, can feel it. His eyes are accusing and you flinch with every word. “What would have happened if I hadn’t have walked out?”

“Nothing.” You laugh but it’s humourless and shaky. He looks at you like you’ve gone crazy.

Maybe you have.

“He’s engaged to Katy, your best friend-“

“I know!” You scream out as the guilt consumes you, the constant dull ache you feel in the pit of your stomach every time you’re near Sweet Pea now too unbearable to ignore. You can feel the tears building up in your eyes but you will not let them fall. He tries to reach out to you but you push his efforts away, a hand running through the knots in your hair. “I know...”

“You know that I was your guys biggest supporter...” This whole time everyone else had been comforting and sympathetic. They’ve danced around the subject and believed you every time you said you were fine.

But not Fangs.

Fangs could read every thought that raced through your mind as if they were written on your skin. And he wasn’t afraid to call you out on it. “But that’s the past Y/N/N, you’ve got to move on.”

“I have.” Your voice is soft, fragile like it might break any second and you’re sure if this conversation carries on then it will.

“Maybe it’s not the best idea you being here.” His words sting, he sees it in the way your shoulders go slack. You try to say something but he just cuts you off. “I’ll think of an excuse, just go. I’ll call you later okay?”

You don’t fight him. You just swallow thickly and nod leaving the shop as quickly as you can without even glancing back.

It takes Sweet Pea a few more minutes to gather the courage to step back out and when he does he feels like his heart sinks down into his stomach. “Where’s Y/N?”

“Some emergency at the bakery, she had to leave.” He shrugs it off like it’s nothing as he watches a frown form on his best friends face that definitely shouldn’t be there.

When you get to your car, your whole body is trembling, a million thoughts running through your mind.

You knew you shouldn’t have agree to do this.

You try to ignore the way your heart aches, trying to push away the things Fangs’ words make you feel as you do the only thing you can think of and pull out your phone.

‘Pizza and wine at mine?’

As you wait for Betty to reply, you lean your head against the steering wheel, the cold leather interior cool on your forehead.

‘Sounds good. Shall I bring anything?’

You sigh loudly in relief, glad she’s free to listen to everything you so desperately need to get off your chest.

‘Just you is fine, see you soon.’

Betty’s already waiting for you when you arrive home 20 minutes later with a bottle of red tucked under one arm and a freshly baked pizza in the other.

You can see from the way her eyebrows crease ever so slightly that there’s questions she wants to ask but you don’t give anything away until your third glass of wine.

The story flows from you as quickly as the amber liquid that your pouring down your throat. You confess every thought and feeling and you can see the same look in her eyes that Fangs gave you just a few hours before.

But Betty was too polite to say anything like he had.

She sits there, a twist of a sympathetic smile on her lips, her head nodding at your every word and it isn’t until the second bottle of wine, that you found stashed in one of you kitchen cupboards, is almost empty that she speaks up.

“Do you still love him?” Her words are like a punch to the gut, the kind of blow that steals all the air from your lungs. You hadn’t let yourself think about it before, refused to let your mind go there but now with her question hanging in the air, you couldn’t help but focus on it.

And it made you realise you couldn’t answer it.

You knew what you should be saying.

You should be mortified that she was even suggesting it, outraged by the fact that she could think you were still in love with a guy that was now engaged to your best friend. You should be telling her that there was no way you could forgive Sweet Pea for the heart break he’d caused you or the lies he had told but you couldn’t find the words, couldn’t bring yourself to tell her she was wrong.

But Betty didn’t need an answer to know the truth, you could see it in the sympathetic smile that still played on her lips even though her eyes were staring down at the glass in her hands.

“I don’t know.” The words slip from your lips in a barely audible whisper, your eyes fluttering shut to hide the tears building up. You felt as if your whole body was on fire as the pressure builds in your chest at the possibility that you never truly let go of Sweet Pea.

You try to rid yourself of the thoughts, violently shaking your head side to side as if they’d simply disappear but Betty stops you by wrapping her arms around your shoulders and pulling you into her.

You finally let the tears slip, the wall you’d been building high for the last few weeks beginning to crumble as you let it all out. You barely hear her words of reassurance over the sound of your own sobs as she tells you everything will be okay.

Not that you would have believe her anyway.

You pretty sure things would never be okay again.

Sweet Pea Masterlist

Forever Taglist: @p-marie-sp

Sweet Pea Taglist: @80sand90simagine @wildberryyyy @hopelesslylosttheway

Cruel Summer Taglist: @t-a-i-l-o-r-m-a-d-e @luvlilreinhart @intoxicatedsixx @yall-wildin-like-siriusly

#riverdale #riverdale fanfiction #riverdale imagine #riverdale edit #riverdale one shot #riverdale sweet pea #riverdale au #riverdale series #sweet pea #sweet pea fanfiction #sweet pea imagine #sweet pea x reader #sweet pea one shot #sweet pea series #sweet pea au

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firewoodfigs · 4 years

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letters to a young poet

Summary: Riza Hawkeye, a young, aspiring poet, exchanges letters with her fiancé, Roy Mustang during his time in the military academy. He attempts to write her poems and prose about life and love, and occasionally sends her presents to remind her of him. Like his boxers.

read on ao3

(a/n: (i) title is taken from Rilke's book. (ii) tw: the timeline of this is largely based on yet another man's battlefield, so there are brief mentions of racism here. (iii) I recommend reading on ao3 instead because... formatting issues, again xD (iv) original poetry at the end)

for @royaiweek 2020 - thank you to the lovely mods for organising!! 💖

~x~

“Promise you’ll write to me when I’m away?”

“Of course, Roy,” Riza drawls idly as she adjusts his coat and ensures that his tie is neatly in place.

“Thank you. I’m going to miss you terribly, you know,” he says, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead before stretching his arms out invitingly. Smiling, she leans in and allows herself to be crushed to his chest in a warm, firm embrace.

God, I’m really going to miss her, he thinks, as he inhales her scent - a lovely mix of gunpowder and peonies and old books - and incarcerates it in his memory.

Roy steps back to admire her pretty countenance properly. Pride and admiration swells in his heart, and he can't help but run his fingers gently through her flaxen tresses once more before resting them on her lips.

“Let me be your muse,” Roy declares with a triumphant grin, pressing a hand to his heart with a melodramatic flourish that earns an amused eye roll from his fiancée. “For parting is such sweet sorrow, and -“

“Shut up.” She pulls him by his tie to kiss him roughly, before flashing a wicked grin and kicking him out of the door. “Get going, you lovesick, histrionic fool.”

Riza throws his belongings out and slams the door as he stares at the wood longingly with an endearing pout.

~x~

June 8th

Dear Riza,

How doth your literary endeavours come along? I hope all is well with thee. Whenever I close my eyes, I see you Like a midsummer’s night dream, exquisite And when I open my eyes to sunlight I cannot wait to see you once again.

All my love, Roy.

~x~

June 12th

Roy,

Stop trying to imitate Shakespeare and force all your sentences into iambic pentameters. It makes me shudder - in disgust, not delight, lest you misconstrue what I’m saying.

Anyway, my literary endeavours are coming along fine. I’ve been spending my time reading some of the books you got me for my birthday, and for someone who writes so incorrigibly you sure do have impeccable taste. All is well on my end. What about you? How are you adjusting to the academy?

Thanks for the pressed flowers that you sent over, by the way. They’re surprisingly lovely, though I’m sure all credit goes to Vanessa’s guidance.

I also enclosed a scarf that I personally knitted for you in case it gets cold at night. Because you have an uncanny tendency to misplace your things, I embroidered a few water droplets in blue at the bottom for clearer identification (if you lose it I’m never making you anything ever again, this took me days to complete).

Hopefully, they serve as a reminder to you that you’re useless in the rain as well, so that you’ll refrain from doing anything reckless or stupid in my absence.

All my love, Riza.

~x~

Roy tears the package open with all the enthusiasm of a child opening his presents on Christmas morning the instant it lands in his hands. His eyes light up appreciatively at the lovely scarf, laughing at the tiny water droplets at the bottom that she’d added as a personal touch.

When he reads her letter and realises its intended meaning, though, an indignant frown makes its way to his handsome features.

Nevertheless, he dons it on immediately, relishing in the warm comfort and how it smelt like her, like flowers blooming in spring (even if his fiancée didn’t appreciate his poetic attempts, he very much liked to believe he was capable of using a simile properly).

June 16th

Dear Riza,

Thank you for the lovely gift, although your harsh words wound me terribly. Nevertheless, I understand that underneath your acerbic tongue lies a tender heart full of love, and I am a lucky man to be the sole recipient of it. I’m glad you liked the flowers. One day I’ll buy you a carful of them, I promise.

Things are going fine here. I’m adjusting well to the ridiculous sleep schedule (you’re the only person I know who willingly wakes up at seven in the morning daily), and with the rigorous physical training we have to endure I believe you’ll have a glorious set of washboard abs to admire the next time you see me.

I must say, though, the food here is pretty bad. Spinach quiche is pretty much the only edible thing, but this man - I think his name was Huggles or something. Sorry, Hughes - had the audacity to take the last piece of quiche right under my nose.

(Per your commands, though, I refrained from trying anything stupid.)

What’s even worse is the racial prejudice. The other day I saw an Ishvalan getting bullied by a trio of ugly men, but they left before I realised what was really happening… So I helped him out after that. I can’t bear it, to this day - they picked on him just because of his skin colour, for goodness sake! It was completely unwarranted.

It’s only been a week but I already miss you terribly. Can’t wait till I see you again.

All my love, which extends from one end of Amestris to Xing, Roy.

~x~

June 21st

Dear Roy,

Sure, keep deluding yourself however you like if it makes you happy. You’re not the only recipient, by the way - I made a cute little scarf for Hayate, too, who has replaced your ‘snuggling spot’ in my bed, as you like to call it. Between the both of you I sometimes can’t tell who smells worse.

Also, don’t be ridiculous - what would I even do with a carful of flowers?

I’m glad to hear that things are fine on your end. Waking up at seven is a wonderful thing, especially when you get to see the sunrise, no? I look forward to seeing those abs, though with your drinking habits I’m sure you’ll probably end up with a beer belly in the foreseeable future. Don’t drink too much.

I’m sorry to hear about the quiche. I’ll make you one when you’re back. If it makes you feel better, though, I’ve sent some cookies I made the other day to you as well. Express delivery, in case they go bad.

Also, even if you haven’t already punched the Hughes guy I can already envision you slamming your tray down on the table, turning around to scowl at him like a petulant child and competing with him in just about everything you do.

All I will say is this: relax, it’s just a bloody quiche.

Good to know that you did that! The Ishvalans most certainly don’t deserve such treatment. No one does, of course, but it’s frustrating that certain ethnicities still continue to be singled out and ostracised in Amestris, despite the state’s proclamation that it’s a cosmopolitan society accepting of different cultures and whatnot… Until then, we have to stand with them, stand up for what’s right, and -- oh, I don’t mean to ramble. Just know that I’m proud of you, Roy. Keep at it.

If it does make you feel better I suppose a tiny part of me does miss you too. Just the slightest.

All my love, Riza (not interested in your silly competitions) Hawkeye.

~x~

Roy blanched at the bag of cookies she’d sent him and the thought of Riza’s quiche. Cooking had never been her strongest suit, and while she was talented in many areas somehow all of that seemed to go away every time she entered a kitchen.

Nevertheless, it was Riza who’d painstakingly made them, and because he appreciates his fiancée’s efforts he vows to eat every single one of them even in her absence.

He bites down on a cookie apprehensively, and is pleasantly surprised to discover that it’s edible. It bears emphasising that this is an incredible feat for Riza Hawkeye - considering how she’d managed to almost burn the entire kitchen down when she tried to make a simple pasta dish for his birthday.

(Fortunately, they’d managed to extinguish it, but afterwards Roy mentally designated himself as head chef for the rest of their lives.)

Deeply touched by the gesture, he wraps one of his shirts to send back as a gift. The thought of her dressed in his apparel has him grinning like the lovesick, histrionic fool that Riza said he was.

June 26th

Dear Riza,

Don’t say that, I definitely smell better than Hayate. And I know for a fact that you love me, although maybe not as much as I love you -- my love for you knows no territorial boundaries.

You could curate your own gardens with a carful of flowers, I suppose. And we could… Well, smell the flowers and procrastinate together?

It is - the sunlight reminds me of you, and I appreciate that. A lot. I also haven’t been drinking, so don’t worry - these glorious abs are definitely en route to you.

Thank you for the cookies - they were delicious, and I look forward to your quiche when I return. Baby steps, alright? I hope the kitchen will still be intact when I come home.

… It’s sometimes creepy how well you know me… But I think you’ll be pleased to at least know that I became friends with Hughes, after we confronted said trio.

We also made a new friend today - Heathcliff! He’s the Ishvalan I told you about in my last letter. He told us he joined the military because he wanted to change and empower the people’s perceptions of Ishval and its culture from a point of leadership. I think that’s an admirable dream - one that I’d like to assist in, too. He’s been a great friend, and I can’t stand to see him be the recipient of so many pejorative remarks. It’s completely unjustified, and you’re absolutely right on that point.

I take that as an admission that you miss me ‘most ardently’ - have you been writing poems about me in my absence?

On that note, you’ll be pleased to know that I have a break on the 8th of July for a couple of days. Want to do something fun? I know you’ve been dying to check out that shooting range, and I’ve been training in the academy for my victory.

All my love, kisses and glorious abs, Roy

P.S. I’ve also enclosed a token of my own affection herein for you - hopefully it reminds you of me whenever you wear it.

~x~

Riza stared confusedly at the oddly-shaped lump that surfaced after she opened the package. After reading his letter she was expecting one of his shirts, maybe one of his button-downs that would’ve been perfect as an oversized sleeping top on her, but she certainly wasn’t expecting his…

Boxers.

His boxers, of all things. She holds it up to scrutinise it in its full glory, and it’s peppered with little puppies - his favorite pair.

To say Riza is surprised is an understatement. She’s not quite sure why he’d sent her his boxers or how she’s supposed to even wear it, but she chucks it aside in the laundry for him to retrieve it when he returns.

July the 8th. The date's circled in bold, bright red on her calendar.

She’d never admit this out loud to any living person, not even her best friend Rebecca. The only person who’d heard her let out an almost-giggle (almost, because Riza Hawkeye did not do giggles) in excitement was Hayate. Because God, did she miss him terribly, and true to his predictions he’d been her muse for quite a number of her recent poetic endeavours.

July 3rd

Dear Roy,

Whatever, you insane idiot. I miss you and I love you too. That is all.

For the record, the kitchen is still intact, and will continue to be so. My cooking skills aren’t that bad.

That’s great to hear. You’re an honorable and intelligent (this is questionable) man, Roy, and I would definitely like to see that kind of change happening. I hope Heathcliff is well, too - send him my regards.

… I refuse to lower myself to drawing smiley faces on my letters, but you’ll see one on July the 8th in person.

And yes, it would be nice to check out that shooting range, though let’s be real - we both know you can’t defeat me no matter how hard you try. I do live up to my namesake, after all.

All my love, Riza

P.S I don’t know if it was intentional, but I never knew you had a thing for me wearing your boxers. Unfortunately, they are way too loose for me and I won’t be wearing them any time soon. Your underwear and I eagerly await your return.

~x~

The 8th of July finally comes around. Everyone in the academy is astonished at just how fast Roy Mustang is capable of running. He might’ve been the golden boy, and he generally outran most, if not all, of them during their training sessions, but now he looked like his pants were on fire as he made a dash for the gate and boarded the first train in a sweaty mess.

Roy continues running like a madman after alighting the train, desperate to reach their home as soon as possible to explain his predicament. He certainly hadn’t intended to send his underwear over, and was sure that one of the other men must have done so as a practical joke on him.

(Fortunately for the culprit, Roy didn’t manage to identify who he was, but there would certainly be hell to pay when he did so.)

As if on cue, Riza opens the door with a beatific smile adorning her features. “I can hear you panting all the way from the other end of Amestris, Roy.”

He chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment. “Well, I’m excited to see you, for starters. And, uh…”

“You want your underwear back?”

“Yes, of course I do.” He pants, struggling to catch his breath while trying to formulate a coherent explanation. “Look, I swear it wasn’t deliberate - I intended to send you one of my shirts, and I definitely don’t have a thing for you wearing my boxers. I don’t know which idiot in the academy substituted my shirt for my underwear to sabotage -” She lets out a laugh. It's loud, unrestrained. Roy thinks it’s the most beautiful sound he’s heard in a month. “You really are hopeless, Roy. It’s fine. Defeat me at the shooting range, and you can have it back tonight.”

~x~

In the end, his favorite pair of boxers sits at the bottom of the laundry for the rest of the day, because Riza Hawkeye is an indomitable force of nature at the shooting range.

She does, however, have a poem written for him, and he’s so enraptured by it that he forgets all about the underwear fiasco. “I’m back home, ma chérie,” he whispers as he runs his fingers down the groove of her spine, as if he’s tracing constellations on the canvas of her back while they lay together on satin, hearts thrumming in harmony. “I’d like to keep holding you close, too -” he recites, but he’s quickly interrupted by her.

“You sound best when you don’t speak, Roy,” and with that Riza silences him with a fiery kiss that rouses an overwhelming conflagration in him.

One that can only be put out by her.

Roy grins delightfully into the kiss, all too willing to oblige. Her lips are an inviting chamber of unbridled affection and unsatisfied desire, and he finds himself exploring her eagerly, fingers tracing her sharp cheekbones in reverent adoration.

Riza responds in kind, trailing a hand down his shirt and notes, somewhat gleefully, that he has indeed returned with said glorious abs. She makes a move to untuck his shirt, humming to herself in amusement as she feels his bare stomach quiver beneath her curious palm.

He’s quick to make a comeback, though. Unwilling to be teased by her Roy draws her deeper into the kiss - she’s utterly incredible, he thinks, as he cards his fingers through her flaxen tresses - and he tastes traces of eggs and pastries and -

- and spinach?

“You made spinach quiche?” Roy asks curiously, breaking away from the kiss for the briefest of moments.

“What on earth,” she huffs. “Way to ruin the moment, Roy.” A scarlet blush makes its way to her cheeks - equal parts breathlessness from the vigour with which he kisses her, and embarrassment at being found out.

He laughs, and quotes yet another line teasingly. “Didn’t you say you’ll even listen to my silly moonshine?”

Riza scowls. “I do regret writing that now. Perhaps I will -”

“No, no, please continue writing more,” Roy pleads in earnest, and before she can make a decision he’ll live to regret he kisses her again with such an ardent love, such a fervent passion that it completely derails her train of thought.

The quiche rests in the oven, burnt and forgotten.

~x~

adieu, mon chéri. may you fare well. in my heart, you will always dwell. (won’t you please come home soon, or will it only be after june?)

you write to me, letters (hidden within are flowers) to abate my need for you. i knit scarves in a room candlelit;

holding a heavy weight within from empty spaces on satin. i’d like to hold you close again -- hurry, love, won’t you run to the train?

i’ll let you place your weight on mine oh, i’ll even listen to your silly moonshine (come home to me, darling my soul is aching in longing)

~x~

*moonshine: foolish talk or ideas.

#royaiweek20 #royai #royai fic #royai au #poetry #royai fanfic #rhyme #I tried LOL #my first time writing in first person oops :"D

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shark-from-the-park · 5 years

Text

FIC: The Fitzier of It, Episode Two

A Fitzier The Thick of It AU in several parts. You can find Episode One here .

In this installment, spin doctor James continues to try to get noticed hired by Minister Francis and those around him offer helpful advice…

Warnings for very bad language throughout, NSFW discussions, endlessly snacking LeVesconte and John Franklin.

@casperthefriendlylittlefan @litttlesilkworm @boisinberryjamarama @thegreenmeridian @coffeesugarcream @cinemaocd @the-jewish-marxist @hereliesnils @nashilena @itisa-profoundbond-sarandom @idlesuperstar @what-a-terrorific-mess @pipuhattar @kahootqueen69 @jaredharrisankles @shit-in-silk-stocking @bobbole @twerkinshield @fellowshipofthegay @aconfusedwriter @uncannybrightside

Episode 2

“Alas, I find myself out of touch, gentlemen.” Sir John Franklin was saying over steepled hands. “The electorate wants something new. Someone younger and more dynamic. Even… someone more radical, perhaps. I am no longer the man for the hour.”

This little speech would have had more impact had not James and Dundy been hearing various iterations of it for the past few weeks.

“James, I want you to go to Francis.”

“Sir John, I’ve tried! I went over there last week, Sir…”

“Now, James. I know that you and Francis haven’t always seen eye to eye. In fact, you two have been butting heads for as long as I can remember…”

“Sir John, I did try…”

“Now James! The political landscape is changing. This enmity between the two of you has gone on for long enough. It’s high time that you and Francis, well… kissed and made up, so to speak.”

Dundy snorted violently and James shot him a death glare, even as he was horrified to feel himself blushing.

Undeterred, Sir John spoke on. “Now I know that Francis is a difficult, combative sort of man, James, but no doubt his heart is in the right place. If you’ll only give him a chance. You’ll need each other, when the news of my retirement is made public. No doubt he will want to rule over you with a firm hand, James. And we all of us know that you’re not used to that. But you’ll just have to swallow down your pride and submit to him -” Dundy appeared to be choking. James hoped he’d be quick about it. “- You’re both good sorts. He’ll learn to see your worth in time.”

James had not gotten this far in life without learning to accept defeat, especially when defeat entailed Sir John stopping talking.

He cleared his throat and studiously ignored Dundy’s shaking shoulders.

“You’re right, of course, Sir John. I’ll go and see Francis again. I’ll see if I can get him on his own and make amends.”

Sir John smiled magnanimously. “There now. I knew you’d see sense. Frankly, I’ll be glad when you and Francis can finally put your quarrels to bed.”

*****

Lurking in elevators was not James’ favourite part of the job, but being the head of communications for her majesty’s opposition had taught him the value in it.

And he was very, very good at it.

There was many a junior minister who would automatically piss their pants at James’ looming, immaculately tailored visage ambushing them from the lift’s blind spot.

This was all to the good – James’ bread and butter.

But Francis Crozier, of course, was a different matter entirely. If he had ever in all his years been cowed by an enforcer or a party whip, James had never heard tell of it.

All the same, when the man himself finally came striding down the corridor towards him, all rumpled grey suit, no tie, and comfortably-soled Clarks boots favoured by scruffy dads the world over, James immediately wanted to slap him.

The Irishman’s eye-roll upon spotting James was impeccable – honed over years of practice to ooze just the right amount of world-weary disdain.

“Well done, James. You appear to have gotten the drop on me.” He drawled, one thick finger stabbing at the button for the ground floor.

“Well, I wanted to have a word without your hirsute bodyguards present.” James could actually feel his mouth pulling into the prim little grimace he reserved for their altercations. “Francis, have you considered what you’re doing? You are squandering your shot at the top job by refusing the assistance of the one man who can actually help to get you there.”

“You know James, I’ve often wondered how the corridors of power functioned at all before you were born. Enlighten me on that, why don’t you?”

“For God’s sake, Francis. If you could just stop putting all of your energy into being offended all the time, we might actually be able to have a productive conversation, for once.” James hadn’t meant that to come out sounding quite as petulant as it had.

Francis turned the full force of his curled lip and razor sharp eyes onto him.

James involuntarily took a deep, preparatory breath.

“I know what you want, James Fitzjames. Your sugar daddy is finally giving up the goat. You’ve racked the entirety of your public school brains, casting about for the next sucker you can sink your hooks into. All so you can cling onto your power and influence like a limpet and remain a self-important, uppity, egotistical prick a little longer. Finding, due to the deplorable state of political discourse in this country, that the only candidate with any grass-roots support is this backwards Irish turd, you’ve decided to polish me up. Is that the long and the short of it? Well, this turd doesn’t want to be polished.”

The lift doors dinged open on the ground floor even as James’ mouth hung open.

“I never…” He spluttered (and he never, ever spluttered). “Francis… I don’t…”

“Good conversation James, we should do this more often.” Francis sardonically straightened his jacket lapels before striding from the lift.

James watched him go, blinking as the lift doors began to shut again.

*****

“I’ve never called him a turd.” James muttered over a late lunch.

“I can believe that. You’d never say anything that vulgar.” Agreed Dundy, shovelling forkfuls of lasagne into his mouth.

“I might have… I mean, I did… call him ‘backwards’ a few times, I suppose. I mean, no more than, probably, seven or eight times. I used to throw around that word a lot, back in the early days with Sir John. I was a different man back then.”

Dundy nodded in agreement. “You were an insufferable prick back then. You were young, though. Now you’re an older, more sufferable sort of prick.”

“Oh fuck off Dundy. Don’t even know why I’m talking to you about this.”

“Because you can’t bear solitary introspection?”

“I mean, who else is he going to get to spin for him? Hickey? Francis wouldn’t touch that immoral piece of shit with a barge pole. I’m the best, most senior, most experienced communications officer this party has. Why wouldn’t he want to work with me? I’m a safe pair of hands! Is he really going to cast me off just because of a few offhand jokes I may have made years ago?”

Dundy chewed thoughtfully while he let James finish. “You do realise, I suppose, that the reason this is all so personal for you…” He paused to take a few gulps from his bottle of Peroni. “Is because you’re obsessed with him?”

James couldn’t quite make his normally agile mouth form words.

“I used to find it pretty funny that you didn’t clock it…” Dundy continued. “…but it’s starting to wear a bit thin now. Do you know, years ago, when we first started working with Sir John, you used to literally go out of your way to interact with Francis. And then when it became obvious that he didn’t think very much of you, you got even worse. Taunting him down corridors just so he’d take a verbal swipe at you and you could tell me all about it at lunch the next day. What he said to you, what you said back, what exact colour his face turned… You’d get so excited talking about how awful and uncouth and boring he was. Do you know, Francis Crozier must legitimately be your favourite topic of conversation. Usually insulting him, I grant you, or laughing about how much you’ve riled him up. It’s getting a bit embarrassing at this point, Fitz. So here I am, doing my friendly duty, for once. Maybe next time you approach Francis about his leadership bid, you should just drop to your knees and suck him off. Or maybe you could offer yourself to him arse first. Break the ice and get it out of your system. Two birds, one stone, that sort of thing.”

James’ fork had clattered onto his plate at some point. He couldn’t seem to order his thoughts.

“Dundy… you are… you’re… miles off with this whole thing, you know… Ha. Francis? Ha. It’s utterly ridiculous. I mean… You’re completely missing the point. He’s not even – I mean… He’s… Francis. He’s… This is about the good of the party. And about my career. And about your career. And OK, it’s about his career too. And about the good of the party. For fucks sake…”

Dundy rolled his eyes and gave James a look which he must have perfected on his twin toddlers.

“Hey Fitz, remember when you told me about your gap year and how you fucked that weird guy in the toilets at Heathrow? And then mid flight you realised you still had the condom stuck up your arse and you had to spend twenty minutes in the plane loo trying to fish it out, all while a stewardess was knocking on the door asking if you were alright? All so they wouldn’t think you were smuggling drugs when you got to Bangkok?”

James blinked at the hard turn in conversation, but just about managed to nod.

“Do you remember when I told you the one about how I accidentally came all over Jane Garibaldi’s face that time and got her right in the eye and she made me take her to the walk-in centre and tell the nurse what had happened?”

James nodded dumbly.

“You laughed your head off through both those tales, Fitz. And a hundred other embarrassing stories. You’ve got no shame. Never saw you blush once. But you’re blushing now, alright.”

James spluttered. “That’s because you’re talking about Francis Crozier!”

“Exactly.” Concluded Dundy sagely, swigging down the rest of his beer.

*****

“D’you reckon it’s time we brought Fitzjames on board yet?” Enquired Ed Little, seemingly out of the blue.

“Nah.” Francis answered at once. “He pissed me off the other day in the lift. Entitled public school wanker. Let him stew a while longer.”

Blanky looked even more thoughtful than usual. “Let the lad come down another peg or five, maybe learn a bit of humility. Then and only then, Edward, will we bring him to our loving bosoms and let him sup the milk of socialism.”

Francis grunted in amused agreement.

“You know,” Mused Ed after a moment, with a muted little smile. “I reckon that maybe there’s only one of us whose loving bosom Fitzjames is interested in…”

Francis snorted in derision and rolled his eyes.

Blanky howled.

*****

Episode Three here...

#the fitzier of it #jimmy fitz is in love #fuckity hi #you don't seem to understand that I'm going to have to mop up a fucking hurricane of piss here from all of these neurotics #fitzier

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