Sorry this took me fucking forever...you've got some idea why I've not been writing for a bit, I think. -.-;;;
*
The state functions were all sweating officers in full dress, medals clanking, officers' wives dressed to the nines, with masks of makeup and helmets of hair, and Roy absolutely, without a doubt, hated them.
Hughes wasn't even there to protect him. Gracia could still fit into her dresses, but that didn't stop him from telling absolutely everybody; he was just a shadow to limpid turquoise eyes, no good at all to Roy. And Roy, he'd been latched onto by Gran who kept introducing him as the hero of Ishbal. "Major General, you have of course met the Flame Alchemist--I don't think we could have won the war without him--why yes, yes--I sponsor the Sewing Life Alchemist as well--" and up would come Tucker, on cue, a mouse in a tuxedo, and he would, perhaps, for a moment be safe.
Armstrong, at least offered a measure of sanity, until he broke out the sparkles.
The women were almost all married, of course, or the ocassional officer, and it was a mad relief when he saw one without a ring on her finger--the size of the stone directly proportional, of course, to the rank of the man when he'd proposed. And pretty, with soft blond hair, a plain but elegant dress...at least, if he were dancing, he wouldn't have to talk to men who thought what he'd done was good.
Her grip was unusually strong. In the waltz, she allowed his hand demurely in the small of her back; he allowed it to stay exactly where it beloged. He balanced her weight easily, though her skin seemed strangely soft.
Her eyes were as blank as deep rivers in the north. He welcomed it; it was better than fire.
Her name, she told him, was Juliet Douglass, and for a moment he could only stare at her and think you started it. You started that goddamn fucking war.
But that was propoganda. Wars did not have only one cause. He took her home anyway.
*
She insisted, silently, upon straddling him. He had drunk too much wine to care. There was no playing the old game of seduction with her; she took her place calmly, with brisk efficiency. He, he just welcomed soft woman's hands splayed on his chest, breasts moving above him, the long curve of her belly.
Her hands were very cold. He sprawled sweaty in the sheets, red-faced from sex and wine, and she rode above him like icy waves. Her cunt moved around him like water, like the sea, more liquid than any he'd ever felt. In the half-light of the soft lamp on the bedstand he kept just for such times, her skin was very pale, her hair dark as sin, her eyes frozen purple musk. But when she brought him to a shattering climax, he did not much care about that either. A trick of the light. Seeing things.
They kissed only once. She tasted like ashes and brine.
*
Only later did she tell him she was the Fuhrer's secretary. His mind went blank for a moment, then started calculating. An advantage, or a terrible mistake? But she would, he thought, keep it secret.
Emotion was not required in the face of those eyes.
*
A few months later, the Elrics came to him. If he could see Alphonse, he might have realized the similarity in the eyes, the shape of them--eyes that should have been warm and alive, on her, but were frozen solid. But, of course, he never saw Alphonse, and it would be years until he finally, fully, figured it out.
no subject
*
The state functions were all sweating officers in full dress, medals clanking, officers' wives dressed to the nines, with masks of makeup and helmets of hair, and Roy absolutely, without a doubt, hated them.
Hughes wasn't even there to protect him. Gracia could still fit into her dresses, but that didn't stop him from telling absolutely everybody; he was just a shadow to limpid turquoise eyes, no good at all to Roy. And Roy, he'd been latched onto by Gran who kept introducing him as the hero of Ishbal. "Major General, you have of course met the Flame Alchemist--I don't think we could have won the war without him--why yes, yes--I sponsor the Sewing Life Alchemist as well--" and up would come Tucker, on cue, a mouse in a tuxedo, and he would, perhaps, for a moment be safe.
Armstrong, at least offered a measure of sanity, until he broke out the sparkles.
The women were almost all married, of course, or the ocassional officer, and it was a mad relief when he saw one without a ring on her finger--the size of the stone directly proportional, of course, to the rank of the man when he'd proposed. And pretty, with soft blond hair, a plain but elegant dress...at least, if he were dancing, he wouldn't have to talk to men who thought what he'd done was good.
Her grip was unusually strong. In the waltz, she allowed his hand demurely in the small of her back; he allowed it to stay exactly where it beloged. He balanced her weight easily, though her skin seemed strangely soft.
Her eyes were as blank as deep rivers in the north. He welcomed it; it was better than fire.
Her name, she told him, was Juliet Douglass, and for a moment he could only stare at her and think you started it. You started that goddamn fucking war.
But that was propoganda. Wars did not have only one cause. He took her home anyway.
*
She insisted, silently, upon straddling him. He had drunk too much wine to care. There was no playing the old game of seduction with her; she took her place calmly, with brisk efficiency. He, he just welcomed soft woman's hands splayed on his chest, breasts moving above him, the long curve of her belly.
Her hands were very cold. He sprawled sweaty in the sheets, red-faced from sex and wine, and she rode above him like icy waves. Her cunt moved around him like water, like the sea, more liquid than any he'd ever felt. In the half-light of the soft lamp on the bedstand he kept just for such times, her skin was very pale, her hair dark as sin, her eyes frozen purple musk. But when she brought him to a shattering climax, he did not much care about that either. A trick of the light. Seeing things.
They kissed only once. She tasted like ashes and brine.
*
Only later did she tell him she was the Fuhrer's secretary. His mind went blank for a moment, then started calculating. An advantage, or a terrible mistake? But she would, he thought, keep it secret.
Emotion was not required in the face of those eyes.
*
A few months later, the Elrics came to him. If he could see Alphonse, he might have realized the similarity in the eyes, the shape of them--eyes that should have been warm and alive, on her, but were frozen solid. But, of course, he never saw Alphonse, and it would be years until he finally, fully, figured it out.