GIP, pimping, ficspam, and MORE REQUEST FICLETS!

[letterblade]

First of all, GIP!

Okay, I feel the need to pimp Arcana Viscera, because it's been my freaking LIFE for the past three weeks, and because I'm really, all things considered, kinda proud of it. And because it's actually online now, and it wasn't last night! ZOMFG IT'S DONE. X.X

PIMP!

*tap-dances*

*twirls cane*

PIMPITY!

*waggles butt*

*cartwheels*

PIMPIN', HOOYEAH!

*poses with hat a la Fossey musical*

If it'll get you reading fic, consider yourself flashed. ^^

And yes, I break out the silly dancing for my Deep Serious Disturbing Genfic. I like irony. Deal. XD

...

...

...

What're you staring at? >.>

Okay, now that that's over with, BRIDE OF REQUEST FICLETS.

'Kay, so writing Arcana Viscera freaking broke my brain. Perhaps at some point I'll explain how much, but ehhhh, let's just say it's one of the hardest and most painful things I've ever written. So now I need to have some fun, go in the opposite direction...no, that's just me attempting to justify that I randomly want to PORN ALL OVER THE PLACE.

*hands Devi back her capslock*

So: give me a pairing (or, I suppose, just a character you want sexed and I'll pair at my will) and a word/phrase, and I will do my darndest to porn. FMA only, sorry; it's the only fandom I'm functional in at the moment. Het, yuri, and yaoi all equally welcome; heck, I need more pussy in my writing. -.-

And now that I've advertised that I'll porn for you, I've actually already porned for myself, with this completely random bunny that smacked me in the face out of the blue. My first het PWP, OMGWTFBBQ?! Raw ficlet here, but you're used to that by now, I'm sure. o.O [Edit: Okay, really raw--I forgot to finish one of the paragraphs. *dies ten kinds of ded* The perils of being a random access writer. Fixed now.]

~

She was too small to be the woman he'd loved, her hair too fine, her hips too slender. And he was too large to be the man she'd wanted, his skin too pale, his eyes too narrow and the color of sunset, not the sun itself. But they were not thinking of the ones they'd lost; the touches of each others' hands were too immediate, too unexpected, and he thought she cannot want me as she looked up with sorrowing, lusting eyes, Lior purple like strange flowers.

He did not protest. He was fallen, a sinner; he was bone deep in pain; she, naked in the dim lamplight in the little mud room at night, glowed in warm, soft stretches of deep russet gold as white cloth bloomed away from her body like the breath of a ghost. She pressed herself against him, unwrapped him in silence, in a wordless act of desperation. His scars were pale beneath her fingers.

His long green wrap slid soft and sand-battered through her hands; she laid it out beneath them, sat both their trembling brown bodies down, his back against the wall. He was hard, shocking himself with how much he wanted her; she slid off his sandals, wrapped herself around him, hugged him close.

It would be cruel, he thought, to speak when she couldn't. No words, no reasoning, no hesitation.

She clung to him so tightly that his skin was white under her fingertips. She clung like a frightened animal, arms slipped under his shoulders with far more strength than he'd imagined she could have--the sort of strength women hide and use to carry children. She clung in silent pleading, keep me safe.

He was not a foolish man, nor blind. He knew what soldiers did to pretty girls who walked alone. He knew that by Lior law, rape did not happen, was to be glossed over, forgotten--by Lior law and wrenching irony, the baby sleeping a wall away was all but a virgin birth. But it would be cruel to forget such things.

And yet, after pains that only women could understand, she would still be close to him. He could balance her weight easily in his arms, brace her with a hand wrapped round the soft curve of her rear, and she did not complain; she only nuzzled closer to him, burrowing into warmth, twitched and shifting her hips until she found the right angle, lowered herself, enveloped him. And she must have wanted him so much, to slide round him so easily, deep secret muscles of her cunt clenching as she rocked, slow and trembling. An act of desperation, an act of validation; her face creased as if in pain.

Her baby cried in the next room, but the dark woman hushed him so they would not be disturbed, summoned milk that stank faintly of rot and alchemy, nursed him to silence.

Her lost voice barely showed even then, even as he bucked into her, loosing himself in lust for one, brief, endless moment. Her breath quickened; there were the softest hints of moans, as if an animal was whimpering from a distant hillside, and he thought her voice might have been beautiful once, but she didn’t cry out. He did, low, straining, not quite able to bite it back.

After he came and slid out of her, she curled against him as he leaned back panting, sweat soaking dust-gray hair thick to his temples. Time stretched; he ran fingers through her damp hair. When his strength returned, she wrapped both hands pleading round his wrist, guided his hand between her legs, led his fingers through strange landscapes, unknown continents and floodplains, until he found his way inside her, until he found his way to the little nub that made her flush, made her almost, almost moan.

She had taken his right hand, fingers running yearning over the dark lines of the great array. Alchemy surged; he knew the taste of her life against his palm. It frightened him, but it would be cruel to her, he knew, to stop.

She was so wet that his fingers grew pale, puckered like grapes in the sun. Sweat ran down her thighs; she did not open her eyes, did not let go of him. She clutched around him, wept silently, came and came.

~

The next day, the green cloth was stiff with dried musk. Scar turned it in his hands, still silent, breathed it, and wondered. Lyla smiled that small, private, menacing smile, quietly brewed tea that stunk with strange herbs, parsley and sage, rosemary and thyme. Roze, sick baby on one hip, clay pitcher on the other, brought water back from the well, and they washed out the stains together, and he touched her shoulder gently with a broad hand, and they hung it up to dry in the rising sun.

Comments

[mattador.livejournal.com]

You make me jealous, woman. *hearts*

[wired-lizard.livejournal.com]

Jealous of what? o.O

Request something? Pweeeaaaaase?

[mattador.livejournal.com]

Hahahaha I am evil.

Post-series Al/Winry, nostalgia.

[wired-lizard.livejournal.com]

You ARE. x.x

Post-series AU, PH34R MY TOTAL DISREGARD FOR MOVIE CANON! Not very much with the porn, but you gave me something that needed plot, bitch. XD

~

I am, Alphonse said almost every day, not my brother.

He collected pictures, anecdotes, everything--not just of his brother, anything he could gather of his former life. But Winry, and Izumi, and Roze--henpecked, really, he'd always been--told him that he couldn't get Edward back by being Edward. He grew up big and lanky and kept his hair short; he'd made a red coat once, long ago, but never worn it.

He grew up fast.

Winry had hit her twenties, and Pinako was putting the screws on big-time about marriage, but Winry didn't care. She was young; she felt younger than Alphonse, most of the time. And she had all her life. Who'd bother to kill her, really? But Alphonse, Alphonse might vanish any day. She could be permanent, she could age, but they all knew he wouldn't, not really. She remembered Edward, so different from the Elric at her side now, and it wrenched her, it tugged her heart open--but it never seemed quite right, never right, to let Alphonse see.

But then he came back from a long trip to an abandoned factory, hands thick with notes and sketches, faced turned in with an expression Winry had never seen, couldn't decipher, and she knew her world was ending, again; the boy she cared for was leaving, again. Alphonse looked at the ground instead of people's eyes, closeted himself with Roze and plied her with questions, went off to work on some great array amongst the ashes of the leveled house, had nightmares.

At last he came to her, swallowed, handed her a drawing. "Could you paint that on me? Please?"

She sputtered, turned red, flailed, but just on principle, because inside she was only hurting. Alphonse handed her brush and ink, eyes turned inwards with inscrutable pain, stripped. His collarbones stood out; there was fine ashen-gold hair on his thighs. Just a boy.

Winry wanted to cry. Instead she slowly, carefully painted on the array, looping swirls, like a phoenix over his body, storied rings on arms and legs, strange inscriptions. "Terra," she whispered.

"What?"

"Never mind."

All his skin passed under her hands. First time, last time, damn whatever cruel fate had taken the brothers into this endless circle of sacrifice. She couldn't hold him back. Not for Edward's sake. She was having nostalgia in advance, and it hurt, it hurt so much.

She'd kissed Edward, once. He was gone. And now--

She finished. He stood, looked himself over as best he could. She faced him. She couldn't look away. She couldn't help herself. Your eyes, she thought, were boiling over, you stupid girl.

"You're not coming back," she choked out.

"Winry..."

"Oh, god, you're not coming back..." She was sobbing. She slid to her knees, wrapped arms round the thin wiry muscles of his thighs, cheek to his hip. She could smell him. His cock was inches from her shoulder.

"Winry..." He rested big teenaged hands on her shoulders, awkward soothing, and she broke, cried 'til she couldn't breathe, wiped her nose on the oilrag in her belt. But she wasn't even done crying when she grabbed his wrists, tugged him down with her, kissed him hard, long, devouring possessive.

He didn't protest. When she finally stopped, she didn't apologize, and that took all the courage she had.

They looked at each other. He finally met her eyes--and he, too, hurt so very much.

He reached out for her.

She poured into his arms desperate, holding him so tight it hurt, strong callused fingers over every inch of him, then licks, kisses, "oh, god, Alphonse, I love you so much..."

At least her tears faded. At least the icy grip on her heart eased just a little, because for a moment, he was hers, no barriers. She took him in her mouth with desperate joy, sucked his cock deep as she could, closed her eyes because this was Alphonse, this was the last of her Alphonse, and every taste and texture would have to last forever. Hers, her beautiful Alphonse.

Because he would still leave.

[stickmarionette.livejournal.com]

*flails* I'll read the fic when I get home - not such a good idea when I'm at university, I think XDDD

And as for porn...Squishy OTP, please ^____^

[wired-lizard.livejournal.com]

XD

Word or phrase prompt? ^^;;

[dani-in-japan.livejournal.com]

OTS, word is travel ^_^

[wired-lizard.livejournal.com]

Woohoo, I get to use the AU bunny I've had noodling around in my head for a while now!

I do apologize; the plot commandeered the porn. x.x

*

--but when he turned, the creature was Gracia, gun in one soft hand, and he froze with knife half-raised, shock to despair to acceptance in a moment so fast it seemed an eternity--and then two inches of sharp steel was sticking out of her chest.

Reality stretched, twisted.

Gracia--the creature--tossed off the blade, and there was Ed, panting, blood spattering his bare arm, automail sharpened to fight, looking for all the world like he'd bolted out of bed to get there.

Shock lasted half a second, tops, though it seemed longer. He was too well-trained to dwaddle.

"There're more--"

"C'mon, let's go before that jerk Envy revives again."

*

From there, through all Amestris, all hell had broken loose, because from there, Hughes sighed, gritted his teeth, and explained just what Fuhrer Bradley was, and Ed's eyes went so wide he could see the whites all round.

"We've gotta tell them," Ed hissed. "Shit. We've gotta tell the Colonel, we've gotta tell everybody..."

"But the risks--"

It became a guerilla campaign of knowledge, carried on by the three most wanted fugitives. The rumors spread wildfire through the military--that the Fuhrer wasn't human, that their command wasn't serving any good interests. It became chaos, dissent; they traveled in woods by night, no contact with anybody, and Hughes became used to eating transmuted bread, hiding sometimes in the great hollow of Al's armor, dusty with the faint smell of blood and the disembodied voice echoing gentle and nervous around him.

He hadn't had time to call Gracia. He hadn't even had time to pick up the picture.

*

It wore them thin. It wore them thin and tired, all the things they didn't have lurking too close to the surface. Not Al, he was tougher than that; Hughes was realizing, after weeks turning to months, that Al was the toughest person he'd ever met, stronger than Ed and Roy put together. But Ed was coming closer to cracking by the day; every time they found themselves desperately fending off a homunculus, there was less fight in him.

And Hughes, well, Hughes was lonely beyond belief.

Nights, when they could afford to sleep nights, were cold, and Al stood watch because he didn't have to sleep at all, and the warm hard shape of Ed's body where he curled pathetic tight on his side, steel in odd places, was becoming familiar. Or they'd lean together against a tree, not quite sleeping yet, and he'd be staring off into space with the terrible pain of seperation, and Ed would nuzzle close to him, face to the curve of his neck.

*

The night after Ed first met and recognized Sloth, he held the boy as he cried, great, spastic sobs, with Al's great gauntlet in the middle of Ed's back and his tremulous cries of Nii-san...

Later, Al looking elsewhere, Ed whined in distress against Hughes' chest. "I'm not a child, damnit, I'm not her child, I'm not anyone's child..."

They were wandering the paths of madmen now, they both felt. Al was stronger, but they were mere flesh, and Hughes could feel his ribs, and the only damn thing he'd had left was his wedding ring, because they'd even had to leave his uniform.

Ed's flesh hand was touching his face, soft young skin against the rough stubble--he shaved with his knives now, kneeling over little streams--and he looked as if he was seeing him for the first time.

Hughes, after a long moment, dared to touch him; the boy didn't even have to shave, his features were almost as fine as a woman's.

Wandering the paths of madmen, constant battle reducing them to animals. Hughes kissed him.

Ed's tongue flickered across his lips.

"Nii-san?"

They sprang apart.

*

But later, when Al left to patrol round the little cave they'd settled in--the cave Ed had transmuted the first inch of to glass, smooth, waterproof, because Sloth had already leaked through a roof upon them once--they came back together. Not a word passed. If they spoke, it might break the one comfort they had. Touch burned warm; the human body, on impulse arches into it. That was all, really. Two bodies twined skin to skin, because it was the only good thing left.

[cosmicbiscuit.livejournal.com]

::applauds the dance:: You forgot the jazz hands though. XD

::tries to think of a pairing:: Lessee...

Lemme get back to you on that? ^^;;;

[cosmicbiscuit.livejournal.com]

God, I'm so indecisive...I decided I hated the line and wanted to try again. XD

Okay. Here goes. Last try.

Archer/Havoc, with added evil in the form of Roy being forced to watch. Line is 'The easiest way to destroy an enemy is to destroy those he depends on.'

And that's that. For real this time. ::apologizes profusely for the spam and goes to review the godzillafic::

[lykomancer.livejournal.com]

consensual Greed/Ed (AU?), "to dance the dead awake"

...feel free to smack me for that.

[wired-lizard.livejournal.com]

No smackage--that WTFbunnied me liekwhoa! Even if it did take me a while to figure out how to write it.

Well, unless you want to be smacked. ^___^

AU, yes, but not wildly so. Implausible sex alchemy, woo!

*

Night stretched gray and long over Dante's parlor, and cooling blood and melted Stones pooled round Ed's boots and soaked the knees of Greed's pants, and the array--transmuted from crucified serpent to the seven-point phoenix Ed had almost used in the lab--glowed dim and gathering red.

It had been Ed's idea to start with, as Greed slid slow and choking off the blade that had punched through his gut--because Ed had missed, spun too low, struck away from heart or lungs or ribs. Because Ed was boiling sick with guilt, screaming that Greed couldn't die--because there had been the monster in the array when he was eleven, there had been his brother's empty clothes when he was eleven, and he couldn't be worse, he couldn't let himself be worse, and Greed was dying on the marble by his hand. "You need a life--a little life--just enough so your body has the energy to reconstruct--"

Ed's hands, still charged from when he'd clapped them, were white-knuckled on Greed's shoulders, a thumb over each node of the array that wrapped close to his neck, and one of Greed's hands was carbon black and square on his bare ass, bracing him, and the other was clamped round the base of his cock because he was already too fucking close to coming, and Greed, lips wrapped over jagged teeth, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, had closed the circle between them by swallowing him hard and sweet and deep into his throat.

Ed wobbled--that was what the supportive hand was for, holding him up with homunculus strength. Ed closed his eyes and saw sparks, because he was a virgin--that was part of why Greed had thought this might work--because he had never, ever felt anything like this before, because he'd felt just his hand and Greed had centuries of practice. Greed hummed, salicious contented, vibrating softly around him, and Ed bit back a yell, automail fingers drawing the tiniest trickle of blood.

It would figure, he thought, that he'd lose his virginity in the middle of an Ishbalan array for the Stone, to an ancient homunculus, still bloodstained and stinking from a pitched battle, with dead bodies in the corner of the room. It would figure.

"Transmute me," Greed had whispered. "Transmute me when you come. No soul to get in the way, after all, no chance of you fucking up, right?"

Ed had suggested it; Greed, dying with the wry acceptance granted only to the ancient, threw a few suggestions in from curiosity, but it wasn't until Ed impatiently clapped his hands and transmuted all his own clothes to shreds that Greed's eyes sparked, raked over scars and automail and compact muscle, the sudden and painfully embarassed flush, curling golden hair, limp but that could always be fixed...

"Don't worry," Greed whispered. "I'll take care of the little death. You just transmute me..."

Greed could have this boy--even if the transmutation didn't work, well, it was a hell of a way to go out. And Ed, Ed was losing it fast, only Greed's hands keeping him from bucking wild into his face, and his own hands were twitching, locked in place over the array nodes only by implacable Elric will, and Greed, if he could, would have smiled, would have whispered, "So beautiful, so mine," as sweat glinted between flesh and automail and golden bangs fell into eyes screwed shut, but he was too busy working up the underside of Ed's cock, meticulously hunting for the most sensitive spot--

And Ed lost it entirely, screamed like a hawk, came so very hard, and Greed swallowed it all down to torn stomach, milking him, Ed shuddering against him, and alchemy flared, and the circle sheeted in red light, and by some blind twitch of instinct in the post-orgasmic bliss Ed siezed at the transmutation, directed it, hauled Greed's cells back into place--

The light faded. Greed pulled away from Ed's cock and crowed with laughter, and Ed's knees buckled and he slumped into the homunculus' arms, red and limp and slippery with sweat--but at least, at least he'd danced the dead man alive.

[greenmouse.livejournal.com]

Kimberly/Ed, Hughes has to watch. Yay for OTS!

[wired-lizard.livejournal.com]

Kimberly...and Ed...and Hughes?

*chucks the timeline out the window*

TWT, baby!

*

It was as if he'd known. Seen with those cat eyes into the thoughts that Hughes hid from everybody, from Gracia, Roy, god and himself. Found him out, him and his forbidden flashes of unbound golden hair loose across a pillow, small strong hand fisting in the sheets, scars and rivets and the hard tan expanses of untouched skin, eyes half-lidden, clear face flushed, that half-cracked voice murmuring, gasping.

It was wrong. He was the genius child, untouchable. But a man could not stop from dreaming.

But when a devil sees dreams--?

He'd not wanted inked green circles and crescents ghosting over vulnerable skin, flesh of sodium and water and the raw mix of nitroglycerin. He'd not wanted blood staining that childish curve of the lips, harsh cries leaking even when he tried to bite them back, red marks and cracked skin from the beating all down his ribs, the Crimson Alchemist like a bony, grinning rag of a man between mismatched legs, thrashing strong but helpless.

For once he'd cursed the fact that he wasn't an alchemist. That he could be rendered helpless himself by a mere pair of shackles, properly placed and secured. That he couldn't scratch an array somewhere, even leaving his fingernails bloody, and transmute. But he could do nothing. Kimberly had stripped him naked before chaining him to the chair, and he shivered a little, legs drawn close, glasses askew with no way to fix them. His knives were stabbed useless into the wall. He'd even taken his wedding ring. It had never left his finger 'til now; it glinted on the floor next to the uncoupled automail. He'd left him just his glasses, so he could watch.

"You're next, Hughes," Kimberly had hissed with a grin. "You and then everyone else that bastard Mustang depends upon."

He wouldn't have to touch him, Hughes thought. Touching him would be a relief after this. Rape would be easy--it was just another form of torture, physical brutality. He was trained in Intelligence, he could handle such things. But this, this would give him nightmares, this would make him sick, this would have Gracia wondering what was possibly, possibly wrong--and how could he tell her?

Ed screamed when Kimberly forced his way into him at last, beating golden head helpless against the pillow, stump of his leg pathetic against the long naked line of Kimberly's thigh--and then Kimberly turned to him, the smile that could freeze hell spreading over his hawkish face, and just looked at him as he tried not to cry with impotent rage. As if the bastard, the mad monster, known.

Go ahead,

[(Anonymous)]

pimp that thing, I just read it and it is undebatably the best thing I've chosen to do for myself for, like, ever.
Sorry. Every minute you spent breaking your brain? I am infinitely grateful for. The effort really shows so very much; I can't imagine writing anything half as good. You deserve money. I'd pay you out of gratitude if I had any.
I want so badly to know how you thought this crazy thing up.

[forgottenlover.livejournal.com]

hmmmm I want.... ::thinks::
Sloth/Roy Centrifical ((whatever word that is meant to be...))

[wired-lizard.livejournal.com]

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.

[devils-devotion.livejournal.com]

P.S. That Scar/Rose thing was GORGEOUS. *___* Lovely descriptions all around, and beautiful reflections on both characters' parts. ♥

[wired-lizard.livejournal.com]

XD *purrs* Thank you!

[crazy-toffee.livejournal.com]

*laughs at the pimpimg* That's quite convincing...

I loved the Roy/Al piece. It rested nicely in between sensual and fluffy, the description of Al felt very IC, and Roy's surrender to him because of this was... right. It all fell very nicely into place.

I also liked your writing style a lot: those long sentences with just the right amount of adjectives and adverbs to make them powerful in image, but not overly wordy. Kudos on the whole thing!

[wired-lizard.livejournal.com]

This is only about the most belated reply on the face of the earth, if you get it, 'cause I've been crrrrrazy, but thank you very much!

I've yet to decide whether my recent long sentence kick is a blessing or a curse myself, but at least it seems to work sometimes. ^^;;

[youkofujima.livejournal.com]

Scar/Al (can be AU)--"This is the world as you wished it."

_{...please porn. Please. TT^TT}

[wired-lizard.livejournal.com]

AHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAH giant mutant bunny.

Would've taken three comments, so I posted it seperate in my journal here (http://www.livejournal.com/users/wired_lizard/220801.html#cutid1). There's a lot of plot and angst, but a little porn too, I promise!

[mattador.livejournal.com]

Lust/Roy. Just after the destruction of Ishbal. Confusion.

[wired-lizard.livejournal.com]

Soooooo belated. Wibble! Though partly because I realized that my first bunny wasn't chronologically correct. x.x So it took me a while to spawn another one. Only so accurate to your request, only so porny. *wibbles more*

*

It was, perhaps, an hour to dawn. The desert finches were starting to sing--those few who were left in the scrawny trees clinging to hillsides far, far from the craters where cities had been. He was shaking with exhaustion; his eyes were heavy-lidded, crusted, his steps slow, but that didn't matter, not really, not when nobody could touch him.

Another rocky drive, another settlement. The caravan pulled up, and he walked out alone. Nobody else needed to come. Half the soldiers were asleep in the seats, and though he technically outranked them, could have had them jumping to formation, it didn't matter. Nobody else needed to come.

All he had to do was snap his fingers. Again. Again in this endless night of terror.

His skin was slick, not with sweat, but with droplets of fat, condensing out of the smoke. Human fat, burnt off rangy Ishbalan bodies. It clung to his skin; he tried, again and again, to wipe it on the sleeve of his trenchcoat, leaving long greasy streaks, but it never went away. When he licked his lips in the dry desert night it tingled on his tongue. He thought of wiping it off with his gloves, letting the spark catch it, letting it burn his hands off. But he was, in the end, a coward.

When the flames died, there was a woman.

He blinked, snapped. Flames flared and died; grease beaded on his chin.

There was still a woman.

He laughed. That was it, he had snapped. Should he make like Kimberly now, incinerate his own men, run for the hills? What would his voice sound like, ringing out in cold laughter amongst broken buildings?

He snapped. The fireball was blue-hot; stone walls melted; slag smoldered after the flames died. There was still a woman.

Somebody was laughing. She was laughing. Cold yet gentle. He snapped; it stopped; it started again.

She came towards him, indomitable. He'd stumbled out of view of the caravan; Biggs was probably dozing at the wheel. She raised hands with lizard palms. Her breasts were cold amongst the flame, the stamp of immortality nestled between them. I was a woman of Ishbal, she whispered. I was a woman of Ishbal.

But her eyes weren't red, She wouldn't burn. He'd incinerated half her country; who could walk out of the holocaust now? The angel of vengeance, the first of the furies upon his head?

He stumbled to his knees, cheek brushing the silky fabric of her dress, the coiled strength of her thigh. Was it fat he smelled or her cunt? Had she kissed him, licked the grease off his lips with serpent tongue? The Stone flickered on his hand; she raised it in hers, smiled. A soldier at a massacre, she whispered, or might have--don't you have the biggest hard-on of your life right now? Cool hands over the fly of his pants, perhaps? Cool hands sliding over his balls, there in the smoldering and empty and endless night, even as he begged her not to touch him?

Grease repells water, even salty water; where, he wondered, might his tears fall now?

Later, a few hours after dawn, the military doctors attributed his breakdown to exhaustion and overwork, chided Gran for pushing his alchemists so far in one night. Gran himself, man of iron, was of course all right. Kimberly was rogue, mad. Armstrong was comatose with shell-shock. By contrast, by contrast, his own confusion was nothing.

It was only years later, when the Fuhrer reformed out of sheeting flame, that he thought that, just maybe, he hadn't been hallucinating the woman, then, the woman of Ishbal.

[mikkeneko.livejournal.com]

Hmmm. I adored Anatomy so much I'm tempted to ask for more Elricest... but that would be mean. So how about Ed/Roy, before/during/after the period where Roy's hunting Ed down in Riesenburg. Key word, "vindication."