A/N: Holy crap this fic came easy! It took me maybe two weeks or so to get this done with, which is saying something considering how lazy I usually am… ('-_-) Anyways! I'm not quite sure how the idea for this came about. I'm pretty sure it was a random middle of the night Skype conversation with my one of my besties, theunknownAyatsukiKuroshima (Psst! She's awesome! Look her up!), who also kinda beta'd this for me. If you wanna know more about my OC Wendy Alsouth, I'll probably put up a bio on her on my LiveJournal, which I'll link to, at some point, on my profile here. If I don't get around to linking it, my username-thingy there is the same as it is here, so it shouldn't be hard to look me up. I'll shut up now.
DISCLAIMER: The only things I own in this fic are Wendy and Noah, and the imaginary video of this that's playing in my head. XD
"WEAR A WHAT?"
Well, what else was he expecting, really? It was Wendy Alsouth, after all, the most intimidating woman in the Amestrian military. And he had just asked her to wear a miniskirt. Here's how it went down.
Colonel Roy Mustang had been thinking about it for a while now, becoming Fuhrer and ordering all the women to wear miniskirts. He was also considering bikinis for the summer, but that was a thought for another day. But changing the uniforms to incorporate miniskirts was feasible, even at his level, if he could get enough backing, that is. Havoc and Breda would be in for sure, and Falman and Fuery wouldn't be hard to convince, either. Grumman would agree, as long as Roy promised never to tell his wife. Having a Lieutenant General side with him on this matter could only be to his benefit. And come on, the military was about eighty-five percent male, and men love seeing women in skimpy clothing. Sure there would be officers running off to the bathroom with their hands over their crotches more often, but it's not like they couldn't work a little bit of overtime.
The hard part would be convincing the women to wear them. It wouldn't be as simple as just issuing an order; military women were strong-willed and stubborn as oxen. There was no way they would just do it willingly. But, if Roy could talk a few of them into donning the skirts, the rest would be more likely to follow their lead. Riza Hawkeye, he knew for a fact, would take any command he gave, and would most likely influence her female subordinates and friends to do the same. Olivier Armstrong might if she had the pressure of the other generals and the soldiers of Fort Briggs, but it was probably not the best clothing choice for being so far up north. Wendy, though, could prove to be the most vital. If she caved, she would either order or threaten the other females to follow suit. All he could do then was ask.
What could go wrong?
Fucking everything.
But it was worth a shot anyways.
It wouldn't take much preparation beforehand. Roy had already had East's top tailor alter one of the existing knee-length skirts. It looked good on the mannequin, what with her perfect measurements and attractive pose. She couldn't talk back or kick a man in the balls if he offended her, either, which was always a plus. But back to the skirt. It was approximately five inches long (the optimal length for maximum panty-shot action), made to be worn at the hip, and loose enough for comfortable movement in both the office and the field of combat.
"Good God, would that be amazing," the Colonel thought as he stood alone in the tailor's room. The old, bespectacled man was in the East City Base mess hall, sipping on iced tea and telling stories to the younger soldiers, probably the one about the time he got to hem the Fuhrer's pants. As if he hadn't told absolutely every damn person there at least thirty times. Despite what the tailor was doing, Roy was standing in his work room, between a sewing machine, racks of ripped uniforms, and one very sexy mannequin, imagining something he was hoping would soon cease to be a fantasy.
There were women, hundreds upon thousands of gorgeous, gorgeous women, each of them in a miniskirt, tight tank top, and open military-issue blue jacket, each of them holding various guns, ranging from machine, to hand, to semi-automatic. Some of the ladies were rail-thin, attractively so, with minimal cleavage, while others were healthier-looking, full-figured, buxom. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, you name it. He stepped out of the grand double doors of Central, his four stars glittering on the shoulders his uniform, and gazed down at the beauties in the courtyard. They snapped to attention at the sight of him.
"Good day to you, Fuhrer Mustang, sir! How may we serve you today, sir?" The last word echoed in a typical dream-like fashion as the black-haired man smiled.
"…sir? Sir? Sir!"
Roy looked down to see the tailor standing next to him. He straightened his back and adjusted the collar of his uniform as he cleared his throat, attempting to look dignified.
"Yes?"
"Is everything to your liking, sir?" questioned the tailor. He dared not laugh. Maybe that was it. Roy didn't know if the guy could even see and interpret well enough to know that his superior was engaging in some kind of crazy sexual fantasy in which he would be allowed to live out his fetish for hot women in miniskirts carrying weapons.
"Yes it is. Thank you very much. I'll be taking this now."
"Very well." The elderly man reached around the mannequin's well-formed ass and unzipped the zipper on the side. God, did the colonel wish he could be the one pulling the clothing off an ass that fine. He'd done it many a time before, but rarely did the lady just stand there and allow him to rip it off of her. If they could cook, talk nice, and make sweet love, mannequins, Roy decided at that moment, would make ideal girlfriends.
This very first skirt was meant for Wendy. Roy knew well where she was at by following the intense smell of too much coffee and the whimpering of grown men. Even he would admit to being intimidated by the young woman who was currently sitting in the lounge, alone, reviewing some of her paperwork. She was wearing her reading glasses today, a rarity when she was in public. A small stack of alchemy books (Roy was shocked at these, thinking Wendy had already read through every published material on her favorite subject.) rested on the round table beside her elbow, undisturbed by the tapping of her pencil. Next to her books sat mug of black coffee, and a glass pot filled with the same dark liquid. Looking to the counter nearby, Roy saw a second and third coffee pot by the sink, presumably the ones that Wendy had already emptied that day. There was a scowl on her face from what the officer could tell, indicating the foulness of her mood. She seemed too absorbed in her work to immediately notice him.
"Lieutenant Colonel Alsouth," he called out to her, instantly pointing out his more advanced rank by declaring hers. She looked up, scowl deepening already.
"What do you want, Colonel Dumbfuck?" she responded harshly, removing her eyeglasses. Roy brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose lightly between his middle finger and thumb, trying his hardest to keep his composure. Wendy knew for certain how to try his patience, and it looked like she was going to do just that today.
Roy picked his head up again. "Wendy," he said, raising up the miniskirt to unfurl it in front of the younger lady, "put this on. That's an order."
"And what in hell is that thing? I'm assuming that's clothing. If it is, what body part is it big enough to cover? I've seen socks bigger than that!"
"It's a miniskirt, and I'm ordering you, as your superior, to wear it."
Jean Havoc, who was walking past the break room, whistling brightly, a hand supporting a binder full of official documents on his shoulder in a way that would have reminded one of a teenager with a boom box had they been invented, overheard Roy's bold statement. This would be a fun show, he decided, stopping with a chuckle to watch his higher-ups have it out with each other.
"WEAR A WHAT?" Wendy shouted back. The entire East City base paused for a moment, but not one of the soldiers dared to see what Wendy was hollering about this time, for fear of getting caught up in one of her many violent rampages.
"This miniskirt," Roy replied, an ever-defiant tone in his voice. It was about then that Wendy's half-wolf companion roused from his mid-day nap at her feet. Noah stood with Wendy, snarls plastered across both faces. The animal growled low in his throat, but made no other moves against the man.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait. You, Roy Mustang, you big smartass, you, want me to put on that scrap of fabric that you happen to have sorely mistaken for a SKIRT?"
"Yes. And it's an order."
"Oho, and you think you're real hot shit, don't you, Roy, my boy. Can you ever recall a time that I've actually taken orders from you?"
"All too many, Wendy girl, considering I am your commanding officer and I can have you court marshaled on the spot. Come on. It's just a skirt, anyways. You'll look good in it."
"So…what? Now you're going to use me as the stuff of your sick, twisted sex fantasies? You're going to have me put that thing on and do what… Take pictures for you to jack off to or something?" The muscles in Wendy's slim neck tensed. She took a threatening step forward, and was somewhat surprised when Roy didn't even bat an eyelash. Cocky bastard.
"That's not it at all. Why would I beat off to a picture of you when I could use your wearing this skirt to influence every woman in the military to do the same?" He contemplated adding maniacal laughter to punctuate this statement of his master plan, but thought better of it. Wendy was still carrying a gun. "Now go put this on, and, like I said, it's an order."
Wendy smiled an evil smile. "Well then Roy, my boy," she said, a sickeningly menacing sweetness lacing her voice like cyanide might lace sugar, "an order's an order. I'll just have to put it on then, right?" She and Noah advanced towards him, and Wendy snatched the skirt from Roy's hand. "Havoc, come here for a moment. Put the notebook down." Despite his knowledge that he was the only person in the base, and probably in all of Amestris with the exclusion of his parents, by the name of Havoc, Jean whipped his gaze back and forth, searching for someone to push the request off on. He had a gnawing feeling in the back of his head that things would not turn out well. "Be a dear and hold Roy's hands still, would you, Havoc?"
"Sorry sir," he gulped, grasping his superior's wrists in his strong hands. As long as he kept in line, Wendy wouldn't hurt him. Noah sniffed his fingers lightly, then turned away in some sort of silent dog-style approval.
"Wendy, what in hell are you doing?"
Wendy squatted in front of Roy, and the colonel felt two calloused, almost child-sized hands roll up his jacket to undo his belt. He gulped, knowing what was probably coming. The belt was removed and thrown aside, and his pants were shucked roughly off over his boots. He was standing there, in his underwear, in front of a young woman who he thought of as something of a little sister, with one of his best friends holding his wrist behind his back, about to be forced into a piece of scanty women's clothing. It couldn't get much more humiliating… Right?
He was so, so, wrong. Dear God was he wrong.
Roy had been in a rush that morning, he swore. It wasn't his fault which drawers he had grabbed to put on that morning. It was laundry day, and after waking up late and having to sort his clothes to take to the laundromat after work, he didn't spend a whole lot of time worrying about what was under his uniform. Not only had he had no clean boxers, the pair of briefs he had grabbed in his hurry were ones he had vowed to never wear again. They were…
"Ahahahaha!" Havoc laughed from behind him, his head tipped back and his shoulders shaking. He laughed until he cried and his sides started to hurt him. "Colonel, ha-ha, Colonel! Why are they… PINK!"
Yeah, they were that.
"It's not my fault, okay?" Roy snapped, half tempted to either kick backwards into the second lieutenant's knee or to head butt his chin to shut up his infernal guffawing. "They got washed once with a red shirt by accident and I don't know why I haven't thrown them away. Shut up, Havoc!"
"Oohoho, Roy. Why so defensive if it was just a mistake?" Wendy sneered up at the frustrated, embarrassed colonel, holding up the skirt in her two hands. She raised up Roy's feet, first the right, then the left, sliding the womanly piece of clothing up around his boots and unshaven legs with ease. His strong calves and masculine knees posed no problems, but there was more muscle on his thighs that Wendy had anticipated. The skirt stretched, threatening almost to rip in two (Roy's hopes that it would were dashed), but slipped up to cover the colonel's pink-briefs-clad ass after a minute or two of tugging. Wendy rocked backwards on her heels slightly to admire her work. Havoc looked down over Roy's shoulder with another chuckle and wolf-whistled.
"Looking good, Roy, my boy!" Wendy chortled, gazing up into Roy's fervently blushing face. Anger burned in his eyes somewhere behind intense humiliation. He would be getting the lieutenant colonel and second lieutenant back for this sometime, they just didn't care when at present.
"Co…Colonel!" gasped Riza Hawkeye, taking in the sight before her with shock and mass amounts of confusion. Wendy, Noah, and Havoc had Roy Mustang parading in front of them, his hands bound shamefully behind his back with a length of rope Wendy had fished out of her backpack. The cord trailed back behind him, looping around the lieutenant colonel's small hand. She and the second lieutenant grinned smugly, heads held high at what they had accomplished. The colonel stood, ashamed, in the front foyer of the East City base, before all of his men and his superior, Grumman, in the aforementioned miniskirt, his boots, and his white, sleeveless undershirt, long since stripped of his jacket, button-down shirt, and dignity. Around his neck on another piece of rope was a sign, scrawled in Havoc's quick handwriting on a manila folder that had been lying around, reading, "THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO BASTARDS WHO TRY TO PUT WENDY IN A MINISKIRT".
The entire base howled in mirth. Hysterical tears fell from eyes squeezed shut in revelry, hands clutched at sides that ached from noisy, barking laughs. Some of the men shouted various things, including "Ow! Who's that fox?", "Nice ass, Colonel!", and, most embarrassingly, "How much you charge for one night, baby?", and many whistled. Breda dug a camera out of a cabinet behind the front desk.
Seeing the offending item, Roy shot the portly man a death glare, hollering, "Dammit, Breda, put that shit away!" The other second lieutenant nearly jumped out of his skin, the camera hitting the ground with an ugly bang. Wendy chuckled loudly. No one in East would ever forget this moment.
Colonel Roy Mustang, though, had looked dead sexy in that miniskirt.
A/N: So, how was it? There's two alternate endings to this, which I'll post as chapters two and three. I hope you guys like it, so comment and tell me! I'd like to promise anyone who comments cookies or something like so many other people do, but if I sent them through the mail, that'd be kinda creepy…