Letterblade (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
letterblade) wrote2005-09-13 04:14 pm
letterblade) wrote2005-09-13 04:14 pm
GIP, pimping, ficspam, and MORE REQUEST FICLETS!
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.
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.
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And err, I'm not Demidevi...but I hijack conversations too! *facefaults*
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Heh, me, prolific? I am so totally stuck on the porn I'm supposed to be writing at the moment. *dies* (the porn for YOU, actually, so.)
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey, to inspire me, you should write me, like.......kinky Roy/Al porn. DO IT. And why yes, I'm aware that I ask for that for every drabble meme. I CARE NOT. I DEMAND TO BE FED. *ego eats New Orleans*
It should be porn with Al in a kitty suit. Because that is ♥. Word? Er, "CAT SUIT"? XDDDDDDDDDDDD;;
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*
Al when he was awake was all sweet determination and intelligence years beyond his age, but Al sleepy was a kittenish bundle of soft half-grown limbs and golden hair, nuzzling against Roy's chest in blind search for comfort, mewling dozy, moaning soft in the back of his throat like a purr if Roy stroked his hair or the strong narrow curve of his back.
Sometimes, Roy would just hold him for an hour or more, late at night, blind comfort. The warm weight of the boy, the smell of him, unlatched things normally lashed down tight within him. Sometimes, sometimes, he'd even dare take off the eyepatch, lay it aside, because in Al's half-lidded golden eyes there was no fear, no disgust; sometimes fine fingers would trace the curve of his temple, the sunken mess of scar, curious.
Whatever grip Ed had held on his heart, Al had him ten times tighter, simply because of his gentleness, simply because he became some small sweet creature he could hold close when they were alone.
Sometimes, even, they both dared strip away their gloves.
Al, at midnight, once stole Roy's handkerchief from his pocket, folded and twisted and tugged until he had a little floppy white bow, which when he snugged it round his ears with alchemy, looked remarkably like a pair of cat ears. Mischief glinted in whiskey-gold eyes.
Roy's gloves fell to the pillow, tugged off with Al's teeth. Al burrowed into him, nibbling, squirming, guided a naked hand to his ass. "Get me ready, pleasegodnow, I want you..."
Because Al could be a naughty, vicious creature too; Al would ravish him with little pink tongue, strip him naked and gasping, because somehow Al had decided that this old man was his.
Roy worked him until he was writhing, gasping, until he expected Al to beg for it--because Al, perversely for a teenaged boy, liked to last it, liked Roy to fuck him for as long as he could stand it and only then reach for his cock, liked Roy to simply take him, unhindered and squalling. But Al, too, had the mischievous streak, and instead of spreading himself, he turned, tugged Roy's fingers out of his ass, pushed him down flat on his back, and transmuted the headboard around his hands.
Only then did his gloves come off.
Roy strained, squirmed, almost tried to turn his head away when Al gently slid the eyepatch aside, both of them buck naked now but for his erstwhile handkerchief. "I want you," he whispered kitten-soft, one hand on Roy's touch, and the fact that he couldn't stop him stood little hairs on end, made his cock twitch, made him shake with arousal. "All of you. I want you to be mine."
Belatedly, Al ran fingers down his legs, black hair tickling under his palms, tugged his ankles into place, touched an array one one crumpled glove to activate it, and secured his feet, too.
"Oh, god," Roy whispered, fervent, all one long exposed nerve, and he was helpless, and he was Al's, and Al lowered himself slow and slick and panting onto Roy's cock, tightened wiry knees round Roy's waist, rode him endlessly, excruciatingly patient until Roy's fingers clutched helpless in empty air, until his toes spasmed, until both of them were begging with every gasp to come, until Al was the most beautiful thing in the world, splayed out above him naked strawberries and cream and Elric gold, with those crazy little white ears drooping sweaty over his head.
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...*stealthily pimps on LJ*
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GOD, WHY IS AL SO SEXY? THIS IS SO BEYOND NOT RIGHT. AH...FUCK, YES!
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I don't know! He just is! ^^;;;;
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If you want me to porn for you, btw, am still taking requests, at least for the moment. *unsubtlehint*
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If you feel the neee to reject me I will be sad, but I will live and then you can write for me Roy X Ed, because I like that too. XD
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Mm, squirming.
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if somehow scar/al can't save itno subject
Ehehehehe, good art will save it more! *holds up fangirling sign*
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I'm sorry. I can't really form coherent thought right now.
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Lovely. :walks out dizzy.:
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be a ficnot inspire ideas.