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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 08:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: Sep. 16th, 2005 09:05 pm (UTC)Only semi-porn, sorry! but they're, like, naked and stuff... ^^;;;;;;;
*
Ed, Roy discovered, liked his baths as hot as his showers. The little room was like a sauna; Roy had stripped too, hair damp with sweat and fog. Ed sat slumped up to his shoulders in the steaming tub, eyes half-lidded, hair coppery wet and slicked to his skull with the ends roaming free in the water, flushed a painful-looking pink with sweat pouring down his neck.
His left hand was clutching his automail, white-knuckled. His legs were drawn up as far as he could without breaking the surface. His face was blank with contemplation. Something had gone wrong on the last mission--both the brothers had been quieter than usual, but it showed far more with Ed--and he wasn't talking about it.
Ed, it seemed, had a dislike for soap; he'd ignored the bottles of gels and scents which had proved so useful for seductions in the past and left the water pure and clear, unshielded by bubbles with country-boy blitheness. He looked perhaps half-hard; Roy wondered at the reasons, though, of course, he was sixteen, at the very peak of hormones.
Steam swirled sparkling in the overhead light, settled over the mirror in a fine haze, and when Roy looked down, there were tiny droplets peppering each fine dark hair on his arm--and it was a shame, he thought, that Fullmetal's hair was already wet, because otherwise that gold would be peppered with silver and diamonds.
"It's getting cold," Ed muttered. Roy started after all the silence, drew a deep breath of watery hot air. He was wearing his underwear and one glove, and that was it; he snapped, blue flames flickered for a moment against the bottom of the tub, and Ed said, "Great, thanks," and sunk back into his sulk.
"You called my name," Roy said quietly, at last. "In the shower."
Ed's eyes went wide. Then he flushed brilliant scarlet, flailed a little, splashing water on the floor. "You...saw me?!"
Roy almost ignored it. "Or my title, at any rate. I assumed it referred to me..."
He got one flick of a wide-eyed golden stare before Ed turned away, even redder, and that was the answer to that, at least. "I thought," Ed mumbled after a moment, "you were just...I don't know..."
"Trying to cheer you up after an obviously difficult mission?"
"Trying to bribe a report out of me?"
"I do have a job to do."
There was that stare again, angry now, and then Ed bit his lip, cursed--and there was that infamous, groundshaking, Fullmetal determination. "Look, shit-Colonel, don't fuck around. Either get out or," and he splashed the water with steel hand, "get in."
Said with such blind confidence that he must not expect the challenge to be answered.
Roy hesitated, thought of marching blind through the gates of old man commanding officer hell, wondered if he needed to be drunk to do this, realized that if Ed actually didn't want him he'd punch his face in and leave it at that, contemplated how he'd explain the bruises to Hawkeye were that the case, stripped off glove and underthings, and slid gingerly into the steaming water, catching his breath at the heat.
Ed, not entirely to his surprise, refused to fold up his legs, with the result that Roy had to insinuate himself between them, steel knee pressed against his side. Water overflowed to the floor with the extra displacement; then splashed with the extra movement as Ed lurched forward, grabbed his ears, and kissed him with devouring awkwardness, teeth to his lips, and it hurt, but it was hardly, entirely, bad.
Roy lurched, swayed in Ed's grip, felt the blood tumbling from his head to his cock.
"Too hot for you, old man?" Ed whispered when he finally, finally let go.
Roy almost laughed, sweat beading all down his face and neck and back. "Yes."
"But I don't see you getting out," Ed snorted.
"No," Roy breathed, and when he looked down this time Ed was very, very hard. "No, you don't."
And then Ed grinned--worries gone, at least, though Roy still didn't expect a report any time soon--and they came together like moths to a flame, faint and sweating and bruising hard.
no subject
Date: Sep. 16th, 2005 09:17 pm (UTC)Mm, squirming.
Date: Sep. 16th, 2005 09:24 pm (UTC)