[fic; FMA; Hawkeye/Ross] Pitch
Title: Pitch
Fandom: Full Metal Alchemist
Characters: Riza Hawkeye/Maria Ross, brief cameo by Denny Brosh
Words: ~915
Rating/Warnings: PG-13+; femmeslash
Summary: She knew that look from her own face against that same glass, not so very long ago.
In the stark and uncluttered quarters, painted - what else? - officer blue, the distance between the sheets was thin, clinging to her naked arms and breasts and thighs at a tissue width. She was warm in the heavy crease she rolled into every night, but there was no crease made where Ross - Maria - was sleeping.
Yet.
When her profile caught Hawkeye's attention, slouched against the giant windows that look out on Central, she could swear Ross wasn't even breathing, trying to imagine the people there and beyond relying on her to keep them safe. She knew that look from her own face against that same glass, not so very long ago. (Maybe even this morning, although she definitely wouldn't admit to it.)
Ross was in no place to argue when Hawkeye grabbed her wrist, used it to pin her on the wall that split the panorama, and sure, Ross could have used her free arm to escape, but she knew better. The oxygen between them was pressed away and they were in a vacuum, and when Ross' boots slipped on the tile, Hawkeye thought she might have been pushing just a little too hard.
"Ma'am--"
"Call me Riza." The tone seemed to imply that unfortunate consequences might result if she didn't - or perhaps it was a sudden burst of testosterone that came from deep in her body, waiting for moments of cornering almost-subordinates in an almost-public place...
"Riza," Ross tried again, flushed pink and eyes sparkling, "I was going to tell you we have an audience."
Sergeant Brosh, who had been steeling his stomach's courage to propose a dinner date to Ross right then, abruptly turned the corner toward the mess hall, his brisk clip saying 'I can't know what I didn't see'. Hawkeye thought about some sort of awkward apology, but changed her mind when Ross kissed the knuckles that clamped her wrist red, and took off to chase an explanation after the sergeant.
The unspoken invitation had managed to get across, and Ross arrived at her door out of uniform, in a long grey sweater with tugged down, nervous sleeves over her fingers, and a pressed pencil skirt that obviously saw very little use. She smelled fresh - soap and powder- which was certainly more than Hawkeye could say about the Colonel.
Ross proffered a bottle of wine. "I don't know what to give a girl on a date," she stammered, and the wary smile sent a wave up the lieutenant's spine that felt like the first lightning strike of a long summer storm.
"You don't have to think of it as a date," Hawkeye said, adjusting the cuffs on her blouse (a need for tidiness and symmetry, of course - she had nerves of steel, it wasn't a tic). The button was too large for the hole, and the more she fiddled with it, the more difficult it became. When Ross took her hand to help, the pause was too long where skin met skin -
- and they never made it out of the house. The door was kicked shut, but not locked - any fool who interrupted now was entering at their own risk, especially if they believed Riza Hawkeye didn't have at least two guns in her nightstand alone.
This time, alone, the second lieutenant was not at a loss for actions, and under Hawkeye's pressed blouse was pale skin, muscles wired so tight they barely fit in their container. Against the curve of her neck, Ross was radiating, and all of the nerves in Hawkeye's fingers fired at once. Her quarters were modest, not easy to get lost in, and they had reached the bedroom before Ross' sweater had come all the way over her head.
They moved in swells, arching against each other in the rhythm of waves on the coast, and they both found that womanly curves still did exist under the unforgiving angles of a lieutenant's jacket. Ross' thighs were soft, uncoiled, not threatening like her own, and she groaned under Hawkeye's touch. Her fingers were trigger set and poised out of habit, but she buried them in the top of Ross' hair and tried to forget about them, losing herself with her skirt pulled down at her ankles, in a room that seemed too small for her for the first time since she'd moved in.
Ross cared for Brosh and Hawkeye lo--watched after the Colonel, but they needed each other, and neither could quite vocalize why. Ross fit against her body as though they were built from the same mold on different sides. Ross had not been in Ishbal; her puzzle still fit, without any pieces burned on the edges or blurred by dirt. She had never called Ross by her first name before tonight, and when she whispered "Maria" under her breath, the most brief ripple, soft lips pressed up against the near side of her stomach and she forgot to breathe.
Whenever they looked at each other in the hallway, Lieutenant Havoc always whispered "what is with those two?" and nobody knew for sure. They always kept their meter and only watched the storm from the windows on the weekends, when the boys went out to play and no one could see their curves against the brief glimpses of light.
Fandom: Full Metal Alchemist
Characters: Riza Hawkeye/Maria Ross, brief cameo by Denny Brosh
Words: ~915
Rating/Warnings: PG-13+; femmeslash
Summary: She knew that look from her own face against that same glass, not so very long ago.
In the stark and uncluttered quarters, painted - what else? - officer blue, the distance between the sheets was thin, clinging to her naked arms and breasts and thighs at a tissue width. She was warm in the heavy crease she rolled into every night, but there was no crease made where Ross - Maria - was sleeping.
Yet.
When her profile caught Hawkeye's attention, slouched against the giant windows that look out on Central, she could swear Ross wasn't even breathing, trying to imagine the people there and beyond relying on her to keep them safe. She knew that look from her own face against that same glass, not so very long ago. (Maybe even this morning, although she definitely wouldn't admit to it.)
Ross was in no place to argue when Hawkeye grabbed her wrist, used it to pin her on the wall that split the panorama, and sure, Ross could have used her free arm to escape, but she knew better. The oxygen between them was pressed away and they were in a vacuum, and when Ross' boots slipped on the tile, Hawkeye thought she might have been pushing just a little too hard.
"Ma'am--"
"Call me Riza." The tone seemed to imply that unfortunate consequences might result if she didn't - or perhaps it was a sudden burst of testosterone that came from deep in her body, waiting for moments of cornering almost-subordinates in an almost-public place...
"Riza," Ross tried again, flushed pink and eyes sparkling, "I was going to tell you we have an audience."
Sergeant Brosh, who had been steeling his stomach's courage to propose a dinner date to Ross right then, abruptly turned the corner toward the mess hall, his brisk clip saying 'I can't know what I didn't see'. Hawkeye thought about some sort of awkward apology, but changed her mind when Ross kissed the knuckles that clamped her wrist red, and took off to chase an explanation after the sergeant.
The unspoken invitation had managed to get across, and Ross arrived at her door out of uniform, in a long grey sweater with tugged down, nervous sleeves over her fingers, and a pressed pencil skirt that obviously saw very little use. She smelled fresh - soap and powder- which was certainly more than Hawkeye could say about the Colonel.
Ross proffered a bottle of wine. "I don't know what to give a girl on a date," she stammered, and the wary smile sent a wave up the lieutenant's spine that felt like the first lightning strike of a long summer storm.
"You don't have to think of it as a date," Hawkeye said, adjusting the cuffs on her blouse (a need for tidiness and symmetry, of course - she had nerves of steel, it wasn't a tic). The button was too large for the hole, and the more she fiddled with it, the more difficult it became. When Ross took her hand to help, the pause was too long where skin met skin -
- and they never made it out of the house. The door was kicked shut, but not locked - any fool who interrupted now was entering at their own risk, especially if they believed Riza Hawkeye didn't have at least two guns in her nightstand alone.
This time, alone, the second lieutenant was not at a loss for actions, and under Hawkeye's pressed blouse was pale skin, muscles wired so tight they barely fit in their container. Against the curve of her neck, Ross was radiating, and all of the nerves in Hawkeye's fingers fired at once. Her quarters were modest, not easy to get lost in, and they had reached the bedroom before Ross' sweater had come all the way over her head.
They moved in swells, arching against each other in the rhythm of waves on the coast, and they both found that womanly curves still did exist under the unforgiving angles of a lieutenant's jacket. Ross' thighs were soft, uncoiled, not threatening like her own, and she groaned under Hawkeye's touch. Her fingers were trigger set and poised out of habit, but she buried them in the top of Ross' hair and tried to forget about them, losing herself with her skirt pulled down at her ankles, in a room that seemed too small for her for the first time since she'd moved in.
Ross cared for Brosh and Hawkeye lo--watched after the Colonel, but they needed each other, and neither could quite vocalize why. Ross fit against her body as though they were built from the same mold on different sides. Ross had not been in Ishbal; her puzzle still fit, without any pieces burned on the edges or blurred by dirt. She had never called Ross by her first name before tonight, and when she whispered "Maria" under her breath, the most brief ripple, soft lips pressed up against the near side of her stomach and she forgot to breathe.
Whenever they looked at each other in the hallway, Lieutenant Havoc always whispered "what is with those two?" and nobody knew for sure. They always kept their meter and only watched the storm from the windows on the weekends, when the boys went out to play and no one could see their curves against the brief glimpses of light.