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letterbladeFirst 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.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: Sep. 14th, 2005 06:15 am (UTC)Sloth/Roy Centrifical ((whatever word that is meant to be...))
no subject
Date: Sep. 21st, 2005 01:39 am (UTC)*
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
Date: Sep. 21st, 2005 03:19 am (UTC)