AN: Set before the start of Brotherhood; Buccaneer's perspective regarding the proposition made in 'Winter Heart'. Compared to my other fics with these two this is rated M for a reason(!). Oh, and if you haven't yet seen the amazing Olivier/Buccaneer piece krocatoo on tumblr drew for me, you really must. It was what inspired me to write this; she's drawn them so dastardly attractive, I honestly couldn't help myself.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa; I own nothing. Title is shamelessly borrowed from the song King and Lionheart by 'Of Monsters and Men'.
Queen and Lionheart
by Miss Mungoe
She'd caught him off guard, that was for damn sure.
"What would you say if I were to proposition you?"
She'd said it so calmly, too – like she'd asked for his input on a military matter, and not something so vastly different. But keeping a cool self-control in the face of the unexpected had long been a point of pride for Buccaneer, and so he'd responded to the remark with the honesty she deserved. He hadn't for a moment considered the fact that she was pulling his leg – she wasn't the kind to tease, simple as that.
But he wouldn't say he hadn't been surprised; claiming anything else meant he'd considered the venture a realistic prospect, but Olivier Armstrong had always been just a little too out of the reach of the hands of mortals for that. There wasn't to his knowledge a more striking individual this side of the Briggs border, and he'd bet his last penny there wasn't any on the other side, either. She was stunningly attractive woman, and there was something to be said about the authority she threw around, sharp and cutting like the blade at her hip. She was the kind of woman who came around once in a century, wild and rare and fierce like a comet, blinding in her splendour and a destructive force shaking the foundations of the earth itself in her passing.
"I'd be honoured, ma'am."
It was a gross understatement to be sure, but he'd been so floored by her proposition his wit had completely escaped him, and left him with a humble sort of honesty that didn't even brush the surface of what he felt about the matter. But it turned out it was enough, and for a moment he'd felt foolish for thinking she'd ever want or need anything else.
She'd beckoned him close, and he'd offered her a drink – a startlingly banal gesture, considering the offer she'd just made, but they'd never been ones for awkwardness and even with the suggestive undertones the familiar repartee fell as easily as ever between them. She was a splendid sight, the cold air casting a flush over her cheeks, and her eyes were bright in the gathering darkness. A Queen at her Northern throne, the world at her feet and her enemy at her back, and for a moment he'd been struck by the significance of her proposal.
The kiss had been unexpected but not at all unwelcome. Amidst shared drinks she'd reached towards him, foregoing any notion of decorum as she'd slanted her mouth against his, her nose cold and the scotch a sharp taste on her tongue. Emboldened, he'd tangled his fingers in her hair, and she'd allowed the transgression – a small courtesy, perhaps, but staggering in its sheer magnitude. And then, rolling off her tongue with ease, a remark that was at once an order and a suggestion–
"What do you you say we take this somewhere warmer?"
And he'd spared only a brief thought for his blessed bout of good fortune, unable to hide his thrilled grin as she rose to her feet, an unmasked desire in her pale eyes that made him forget all about the cold.
"Aye, ma'am."
The door to her private quarters closed behind him, but he remained just a step inside, watching as she placed her sword down by her desk before smoothly shedding her winter coat, shrugging it off and dropping it over the back of a chair. The room was dark, but she lit the kerosene lamp on her nightstand, and he was momentarily struck by the domesticity of her actions, and the familiarity with which she moved about despite his presence and the underlying implications. It was a sign of comfort, and he didn't know why he was even surprised. Perhaps it was because it helped drive home the realization of the reason she'd asked him of all the soldiers in her ranks.
Seeming to sense his eyes on her back, she turned, one brow arched in silent question, and when he didn't move a smirk the likes of which he was sure he'd never seen before curled along the lines of her full mouth. "Getting cold feet, Captain?" she asked as she took a seat, before she set about tugging off her boots, first the left and then the right, the motion deliberate where her earlier shedding of her coat had been careless. This was something else – new territory for the both of them, two old-timers at the threshold of a first. But she didn't seem to let that fact impair her as she tugged off one glove, then the other, before she set about unbuttoning her uniform jacket with a meticulous pace that only served to underline the fact that it wasn't just about a quick romp in the sheets to get the warmth back into their bones. If that had been the case, they wouldn't still be dressed.
But she seemed in no hurry, and as she hadn't called him out on his ogling, Buccaneer grasped the rare opportunity to watch her shed her regalia.
"Quite the contrary, ma'am," he answered, voice gruffer than he'd intended, but it was hard keeping track of something like the movement of his vocal chords when she was looking at him like that. The slight buzz from the scotch still lingered at the edge of his mind, but the warmth deep in his belly wasn't from the alcohol.
The last button of her jacket slipped its confines, and she pushed it off her shoulders and dropped it over the back of the chair with her coat, leaving her in a wool shift identical to the one he wore himself, but he marvelled at how the same type of garment could look so vastly different on another shape. It clung more than it hung to her shoulders, the fabric tight around the distracting outline of a waist the standard Amestrian uniform did absolutely no favours.
She caught his gaze then, her look one of dry amusement, and without dropping it, set about unbuttoning her pants.
He barked a laugh quite despite himself, and she quirked a brow. "Something the matter, Buccaneer?"
He didn't tell her that her unapologetic boldness was a damn fine trait in a partner, or that he was still wrapping his mind around the fact that they'd come to this point. Instead he only smiled, the gesture stretching wide across his face. "I was just thinking that you're quite a sight, sir."
She snorted, but a smile lingered along the corners of her mouth. "Indeed?" Pushing the fabric of her pants down her legs, she discarded it carelessly, before throwing one leg smoothly over the other as she leaned back in her chair. His gaze travelled up the expanse of bare skin, until the clearing of a throat had his eyes flicking to hers. She raised her brows, and the order rang loud and clear, and he could only chuckle as he moved to take off his own coat.
"All's fair, Captain," she said simply, in that low tone of voice that usually meant some poor Central official was about to be thoroughly schooled, but there was a husky quality to it that he hadn't heard before, and the promise of something quite other than discipline lurked in blue eyes sharp and gleaming like a northern glacier.
And ever the faithful vassal, Buccaneer didn't question her authority, and once the coat fell, the boots were next. She said nothing where she sat, seemingly content to watch him, and he smirked, unduly pleased at the attention. He'd never been one to draw appreciative looks like some of his colleagues, but then, it had never been a priority, either. But there was something to be said about being the focus of attention of those sharp eyes – to be more than just a soldier at her command, always a steady presence at her back. She wasn't a woman who gave a damn about looks, but the way her gaze lingered shamelessly rubbed his vanity the right way regardless.
The automail made unbuttoning his jacket an awkward venture, and he grumbled under his breath, his own attempted efficiency leaving something to be desired. She rose to her feet then – the movement gliding effortlessly into three sure strides, and then her hands were on the lapels of his uniform, deft fingers making quick work of the buttons before she pushed the jacket off his shoulders. One hand lingered against his prosthetic arm, an odd sort of indecision in her movements, but it was gone a second later, and in one fluid motion she'd tugged her shift over her head. Her heavy mane fell about her bare shoulders, static from the wool of the shirt, but she paid it no mind, and shed the rest of her undergarments without preamble.
Then she raised her chin, placing her hands on her hips, and he could only stare.
She quirked a smile. "Speechless, Buccaneer? Well, now."
He laughed, gaze lingering on the wide flare of her hips and the dip in her waist, and the soft glow of her pale skin in the flickering lamplight, the hinted softness betrayed by the coil of sinewy muscles running the length of her strong arms and legs and across the expanse of her stomach. A sight larger than life, though she was in fact a rather slight woman, her head not even level with his shoulder with her uniform boots on and even lower now, stripped as she was of her military garb. But her presence loomed large before him, the gleam in her eyes making it seem like she was seizing up an opponent, and when she reached for him it was without reserve, fingers hooking into his belt as she tugged him closer. A cold hand slipped beneath his shirt, calloused fingers dancing along the skin of his stomach, and he swore under his breath.
"Cold?"
He grumbled, "You usually wear gloves, sir."
She smirked. "There'll be time for kinks later," she declared. "First I'd like it a little warmer in here."
He grinned, "As you wish, ma'am," and for the second time in one evening, as well as in the long years spanning the length of their acquaintance, reached out to rest his hand against the side of her face, fingers delving into the mass of her hair as he pulled her close to smash his mouth against hers.
They weren't gentle people in life and so it wasn't strange that they weren't even remotely gentle in this, either, but rather two colliding forces, a winter wind slamming against the unyielding mountain, and despite her small size she threw the full weight of her being into her actions. His knees buckled when she proceeded to shove him back against the door, hands tugging, tearing and pulling at his wool shirt until it was discarded along with his jacket, and her fingers ghosting over the seat of his pants was all the warning he got before she slipped them beneath the hem, pulling the fabric down his legs and kicking it away.
Then she paused, and spared him a long, appreciative look that made his mouth go dry, but she didn't give him a moment to savour it before she advanced on him again. And it was combat, he realized, but though devoid of her blade her teeth bit sharp against his lower lip, and the rake of her fingernails down his back had him grinning against her mouth.
It was far from a graceful venture, but theirs was a long-time partnership rooted in a trust that drove the initial awkwardness away before it had had a chance to settle. They'd fought side-by-side for years, and in some ways he knew her form as well as he knew his own. Her right knee had suffered damage some years back and gave her hell on particularly cold days, and she had minimal sensitivity in the last two fingers of her left hand from an old frostbite. She'd broken a number of ribs on a number of occasions, and one protruded at an odd angle from beneath her skin, he felt, as he ran his fingers over the curve of her ribcage. He also knew she had a nasty scar somewhere on her back from a near-fatal encounter with Drachma – he'd been present when she'd been struck down, had half-dragged, half-carried her to a medic, but had never seen the souvenir it had left her with.
Now he ran his fingers along the ridge, a jagged, protruding line spanning the length of her back from her shoulder-blade to her hip, but she didn't jerk at the touch, and disregarding her state of complete undress, as far as intimate allowances went it carried a lot more weight than the mere shedding of her uniform.
"Admiring my battle scars, I see."
He said nothing, aware that it was a subject better left unspoken, and let his hand drift lower, watching with mild satisfaction her pupils dilate. But never one for renouncing control, she responded in turn, curling slim fingers around his length in a way that had his breath lodging in the base of his throat.
She quirked a brow. "My, Captain," she all but purred, wicked delight in her pale eyes, and he held back a curse when her grip tightened deliberately – a decidedly teasing gesture for a woman who was usually one for cutting right to the chase. "Aren't you well equipped."
He growled, mismatched hands gripping the swell of her hips as he took a step forward, pushing her back as he went. Artificial fingers raked down the length of her thigh before digging into the swell of her ass, and when he hoisted her up it was with none of the reserve he'd shown her earlier. But she took it all in stride, winding her legs around his midsection with a force as though about to take him down in a leg-lock, and when he shoved her against the wall her smile was as sharp as her teeth against his mouth.
"Taking charge, Buccaneer? I believe some would call that insubordination."
His mirth was a deep thrum from somewhere in his gut. "I'll take my chances, sir."
"Oh, you will, will you?" The gaze holding his was a challenge if he'd ever seen one, daring him to make good of his words, and now there was no air of hesitation when he gripped her hips and pushed himself forward.
She sank onto him with a breath, the movement made slightly awkward by their positions, but he adjusted his grip on her thighs and when he pulled her closer next the motion drew a low groan from her throat – the kind of sound that went straight to your bloodstream and then to your head faster than a shot of strong booze. She braced herself against him, fingers digging into skin and metal and her breath was a harsh rasp against his throat, and he didn't pause, but thrust into her with a little less restraint every time.
It wasn't ideal; it was rough and inelegant, and she swore against his ear as she shifted – the action nearly making his vision go blank and all the breath in his lungs to be sucked out, but it became clear to him that she wasn't nearly as contented. She grunted, wrinkling her nose as annoyance skittered across her expression. He chuckled at the sight, but had to hold back a groan when her legs tightened around him, as though in retaliation. "Orders, sir?" he wheezed out.
That seemed to make up her mind. "Bunk," she bit out. "Now." Then without warning she pushed herself away from the wall, and it was all he could do not to topple backwards, cursing under his breath as he tried to regain his balance.
Her grin was a flicker before his vision. "Steady on your feet, Captain," she purred, the hands on his shoulders sliding up to grasp his neck, her legs clenching around him again and this time the expletive that rolled off his tongue drew a laugh from her. "Keep going," she muttered against his mouth, and when the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bunk, she sank down with him, the gold of her hair following the movement, brushing against his skin as he was pushed rather unceremoniously on his back.
She tilted her head where she sat above him, a cat's clever grin stretching along her mouth. "Much better."
He snorted, a remark at the tip of his tongue about always needing to be in charge, but it was driven from his mind when she rotated her hips in a lazy circle, arching one brow as she looked down at him. "What was that?"
He only grumbled, but tightened his grip on her thighs, and when she rolled her hips next a low thrum of a moan rolled off her tongue in turn, and this time he didn't hold back his own groan, and let his head fall back against the mattress.
Wrapped in the depths of her heat, the cold seemed a vague memory, and the discomfort of the edge of the bunk digging into his hip was driven from his mind by the all-encompassing feel of her – the steady motion of her thrusts and the heave of her chest, and the eyes holding his blue like ice though she was all scorching warmth, fierce and wild like a bonfire. Her earlier annoyance was gone, chased from her features and leaving a smug smile that promised nothing but trouble, and that had a shiver racing up his spine despite the sweat coating his skin. Lord have mercy, but she's going to kill me.
She was more at ease now, he noted, and there was a fervour about her movements more suited for a woman half her age, but it spurred him on, and he let his hands ghost along her sides, fingers brushing against the undersides of her exposed breasts and when she let her head fall back it was a sight that rivalled the summit of Briggs on a clear day, and he was momentarily stunned–
–when her eyes snapped back to his, and she thrust forward with enough force to nudge the bunk against the wall, and he swore loudly and colourfully as his vision crossed. Fuck–
"Woman," he barked, hands sliding back down to grip her hips, as though in warning, "You're going to be the death of me."
That only seemed to urge her on, and she grinned, hands skimming down his chest to his abdomen. "Care to test that theory?"
She was far from a delicate woman, and so he didn't spare a thought for gentleness as he thrust upward – the movement drawing another moan from low in her throat, and the grip of her fingers was a vice against the skin of his sides. The metal of his automail had a peppering of goosebumps rising along the curve spanning the length from her hip to the swell of her breasts, but she didn't seem to mind.
She grinned wickedly, and a little dazedly, but didn't slow down – quite the opposite, and he met her halfway, matching her movements though the feel of her around him was making it hard to keep a level head, as she was no doubt aware going by the gleam in her eyes. She'd outlast him, but he was too bloody old to give a damn about appearances, and it had been too fucking long, and so when he came it was with a vicious oath that dwindled into a drawn-out groan as he bucked against her.
"Don't pass out on me yet, soldier," came the order, and she drew his good hand towards her, directing it with a smooth efficiency to press his thumb against her slick folds. And despite the daze, he followed her example, rubbing against it and drawing a throaty moan from her lips as she rocked forward. He repeated the gesture, and the next sound that escaped her was from somewhere lower in her gut, and he vowed dazedly that even if she decided it to be a one-time thing, he'd hoard the memory until he drew his last breath.
She unwound then, unyielding steel going slack and soft and malleable as she collapsed against him, the gold of her hair spilling over his heaving shoulders, and his grip against her was hard enough to bruise. Her skin was slick with sweat, and the room was coated in a hazy sort of warmth that belied the winter wind raging outside.
With a sigh, she slid off him, the movement a lethargic sort of surrender so at odds with her character. "Still alive, Buccaneer?" And there was a breathless quality to her words, the slow drum of her voice curling around his ear, and he grinned lazily – unduly pleased at the startlingly human display of utter exhaustion from a woman who'd claim to be dandy when she looked dead on her feet.
"Barely, ma'am."
She laughed then – the sound bubbling forth from somewhere at the depth of her being, and when she shifted it was to throw a leg over his hip, pushing herself closer in the small space the bunk left them with. "Flattery or honesty this time?" she asked, a sinful smile curving along her full mouth.
He didn't know what possessed him to do it – perhaps the sight of her, bare and relaxed and laughing in a way that was now permanently engraved in his memory – but when he reached out to tangle his fingers in her hair she didn't start, only looked at him through hooded eyes that showed more than they hid. He quirked a tired smile. "With you, ma'am, always honesty."
She snorted, but there was no bite behind it. "On the tongue of any other man, that would be considered flattery."
He laughed, running his hand through the length of her hair, the thick mass damp and clinging to her skin. A flush peppered her shoulders and the arch of her regal cheekbones, and her eyes were half-lidded and lazy. And there was the sense of privacy again – and of the sheer weight of the allowance she had granted him. This was vulnerability, this lingering after the act. A quick fuck would have seen him dressed and out the door already, but the heavy lethargy that had settled was testament of something else, something that was further underlined the way she rested, partly atop him but appearing in no hurry to move. If she'd commanded it he'd have gone in a heartbeat, collected his things and been out the door without a word. He was still her loyal vassal, and though there was no denying something had changed, he carried no misconceptions about his new role.
And so, "Any further orders, ma'am?"
Her response was a tired grunt, halfway muffled by the pillow. "As you were, Captain. Or do you have any other pressing matters to attend to?"
He grinned into the dark, and let the full weight of his arm rest over the curve of her hip, pleased that she let him. Her hair fanned out, a golden arc against the bunk, and his eyes traced the scar on her back, and the jutting rib that shifted when she drew breath. "Not at all, sir."
She didn't open her eyes. "Good. Now shut up and go to sleep."
His laughter was a rumble, low and good-humoured, because despite making such a staggering leap across personal boundaries, some things were still the same. "Aye, ma'am."
He'd never dream of taming the winter – of claiming dominance over a living, immeasurable force like Olivier Armstrong. Instead he'd brave the heart of the blizzard with his arms thrown wide open, and take what she gave. He was still her vassal; and she his sovereign lady.
And all the private intimacies in the world couldn't hope to change that.
AN: I've a tender heart, okay? This is me dipping my toes into new territory, hurr – I wasn't about to cannonball right in /hides under the covers. But I do hope it was enjoyable, nudge-nudge, wink-wink. Please drop a line, either way; I might want to do this again.