[Fic] Hierophant - Scar/Ed (NC-17)
So this was originally something I was writing for the lovely herongale, cause I really wanted to give her Scar for Christmas but I can't draw worth a damn ;_; But then I write this, and was like, ugh, I can't write worth a damn either. So I ignored it. Then sky_dark was emo because there was a "famine" of non zoofic, and so well...this was the first thing I ran into, so now it's going to see the light of day after all f^^;; So Heron, I'm sorry I suck, please don't kill me, and as for you Sky, uh...I'm so totally sure this isn't what you were asking for, but oh well XD
*goes to sleep*
Title: Hierophant
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Scar/Ed
Spoilers: AU ending, spoilers for anime up to 42.
Author's Notes: Kind of-sort of a rewrite of the concept I had before, only with more cohesive backplot and zomg, actual grammar this time XD
One foot, in front of another. One stride, coming just a bit nearer. The sand scoots aside, slips and catches, but his feet are broad and accustomed to its treachery: he does not trip and spill his precious cargo.
He carries it in two buckets, one for each hand. The water they draw here is thick and brackish, barely fit for human consumption; as a child they would have denied it horse-water. He would like to move them closer to the oasis, but that is a risk; and they take enough risks here in the ruins of Lior that he cannot bear to add one other. The military has largely given up hunting for them (largely), though there is a certain dark-haired soldier that comes patrolling, some nights, and he is troubled by the parts of himself that know who that man has to be.
One who would challenge!. Says a greedy voice.
Only because we take. Says a more temperate one.
The top of a dune squelches out from beneath him, and he tenses, unconsciously calls upon his second strength to keep his ankles from wobbling. The power coils in his veins, surges and ripples and turns his muscles into something more like unto steel.
The voices of the dead circle too, louder now, nip at his feet like so many flecks of sand. Some of them cry for vengeance, retribution. Some of them cry for their own absolution. Brother, one of them whispers, louder than all the others, and it is this one he knows best, thinks he probably even agrees with sometimes.
Brother.
They are part of his world now, like the sand; swirling bits of human debris. If you look close enough at sand, you realize that it used to be rock; as these voices once also used to be people. The landscape around him shifts as subtly as the one inside his body, and before he realizes it the sand has delivered him to their dwelling place, a tiny little campsite nestled in the shadow of what used to be a library. The sand is piling up to eat the brick, on the one side; the voices are piling up to eat his being on the other.
He enters their tent without ceremony or fanfare, merely slides his large form sideways into an impossibly narrow opening. The sands follow at his heels and they grate at him slightly. Niisan, the gentle voice says, louder now, in recognition.
There is a nondescript bundle of blankets in the center of the sleeping space, already swirled up and ready for nightfall. Like a moth in its cocoon, he thinks, doesn’t hesitate to unwrap it. He notes with some pleasure how dark the boy’s skin is, how much he is given to resemble Ishvala’s own, of late. The sun favors him. Some of the voices seem to agree, shift ever so slightly beneath the tapestry that is his skin.
My baby, my baby- A mother.
Five li, six li, seven, a ten-piece! A slaver.
He understands what they say, but whether they speak his own people’s tongue or some other, he cannot discern.
“Water.” The boy says, and a slim hand offers up a wooden bowl. Offers it up reluctantly, with a hesitant waiver. Golden eyes flicker uncertainly to the vessels in his hands, as if not expecting them to be real.
“There is more.” He acknowledges, and sets them carefully to one side. “It is not very good.”
“It’s okay, I could use some alkali in this thing I’m working on.” His companion - brother! - mutters, waves his good hand briefly. He has begun to take on the semblance of a desert brush-bird, at times - his movements are muted and light, apprehensive and darting. His hair is long and everywhere, even constrained it is not truly contained. He reaches down and places one hand at the base of that braid, feels the little one shiver and melt. He will take that hair down and pull his hands through it, this night; he will uncover that bronzed skin reverently and anoint it with oils.
Sinner. Says a shrieking voice, like the leaders at temple.
Saint Says a buttery voice, like the whores waiting outside in the alley.
Brother. Says the nice voice again, and the sound is sympathetic. He chooses to just ignore all of them for now.
He slides his fingers to the head of the braid, starts to carefully unwind it. There are many cloth ties keeping it bound, and he undoes them all in turn, unravels the soft plaits until they ripple in his fingers like thick silky waves.
Shave it. One voice calls, distant and empty. This is your enemy. He deserves it. He yanks momentarily, but it is his own hair that he pulls. “Put out not another tongue unless yours can say you are fully without blame.” Ishvala has taught him. “Brothers have long memories; accuse not your own lest he bring charge against you.”
The alchemist - proud word, made humble in this feather-light form - says not a word. Relaxes only slightly into the pressure on his scalp. His hair spins itself the rest of the way out to its natural conclusion, a cloud of sun-bleached yellow wisps, and it is too much to ask not to press a kiss into the tangled mass. Brother’s hair is always mussed, because he never dries it after his bath, and then Mother used to fuss; Mother had such a beautiful laugh, right up until Mother -
- died in the last great pox epidemic, and NOT in a parlor in a farmhouse in the middle of green. The part of him that is the Stone pulses ominously. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Forgetting control. The voices are the landscape; the voices are the sand. Must keep walking, over dunes that keep shifting. One false step, and he will sink into the earth.
He reaches for the buckets and dips the cleanest cloth he has into the dark waters. He himself can wash for days on only a single bucket; he has an efficient method for getting the worst of the sweat, uses sand to scour off most of the filth first. His companion is a hot-house orchid though, withered much when transposed to the desert. Watering him is a luxury he must risk instead, and though water is a precious commodity, he still spends a bucket every now and again on that (beautiful) hair, because it means rather much to a part of him. He will bathe those tresses in a bucket all their own, and tilt the rest of the contents down the boy’s muscled back, wash him carefully, take good care of him.
The voices jibber and approve, because they see in this desert bird the key to their salvation, revenge, rebirth, death, peace.
But not a god. He reminds himself, roughly, tugs the robes off boney shoulders perhaps harder than he ought. Just a man.
Just a boy. It is a boy’s body looking back at him, blushing, with his knees to his chest; embarrassed at his masculinity, the quiet commanding strength of his hands.
“…I can wash myself, you know.” The alchemist says, though they both know it is a lie. He has not quite learned the conservation of water; his false miracles can draw the excess up to the top of the ground but not put it back in the washtub. Water is like blood; once it is spilled there is no going back.
And how many thousand lives were spilled to create his form, he wonders? He presses the rag to the boy’s back and listens to them jibber at the way his companion gasps. So many questions he has for them, and so few they care to ever answer.
He washes the youth slowly, reverently; milks the cloth for every bit of moisture it is worth before going for more. The boy squirms, uncomfortable, at the cloth on his back, on his chest, up his neck and down his legs. Gasps, ever so slightly, as the wetness drags closer, low across his belly button, closes his eyes furiously as his hips begin to rock a little.
He is only a boy, and the attention excites him.
He spreads the alchemist’s legs roughly and runs the cloth down there, too; watches in fascination at the play of sensation on a marvelously open face.
“Beautiful,” he says, speaks for a woman ten years gone. “You are the color of morning.”
“Beautiful,” he says, for a soldier far from home. “I missed this, so much.”
“Don’t be cruel.” The alchemist gasps. There are tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Just fucking do it.”
He is hurt but this is nothing personal; sometimes, they speak through him, and sometimes, it easier just to let them out. He is an adult and live with the consequences. Being stoic is too much like walking on quicksand; the harder he fights it, the more they try to pull him under. Best to traipse on the dune ridge and dabble in madness, than lose all they’ve worked for by breaking completely. He is damned of Ishvala, there would be no heaven for any of their souls.
“Brother.” He lies instead, to make the boy compliant, and the alchemist shudders and doesn’t deny him.
He pulls the boy into his lap, has him straddle his thighs; runs one hand down along the curve of the boy’s ass, squeezes it in the way he knows the boy likes. The boy gasps and jerks hard against the plane of his stomach, lets out a low, needy whimper. He is usually silent, sound means he is hurting; he slides one large hand (secretly soft, calluses don’t last long in the sand) down and wraps it around the point of the ache.
A sharp inhalation, and then he begins to move, slides his thick hand up and down and up and down, squeezes sharply. The boy’s metal limbs, frozen solid by grit, continue hanging motionless, but his flesh ones can jerk, and they do so, repeatedly.
The boy's mouth works soundlessly, whether he speaks to a deity or not, he cannot discern. The ache must be easing now because sound does not return, and he arches his back like an angel in flight, and the voices yammer and praise in the thousands, tens of thousands.
Our savior, our beloved-
No goddess but Ishvala. He tries to reason. No other gods are true.
This god will deliver us.
This boy will grant us peace.
Brother will give me my body back. I can’t wait. I don’t want to keep living in this one.
DELIVER US.
They want to touch his power, want to worship; he presses his lips to salty skin and lets them offer themselves. Their strength crackles around him, rumbles through him, and he is vaguely aware he is glowing. The Stone is alive inside himself, active and hungry, and he presses his hands harder, faster, needs to worship with his hands and mouth and body and mind. Power calls to power, and Edward Elric is the closest thing to hope the Stone has had in years.
When the boy comes, with a noiseless shout, it is as if the voices all hold their breaths, too.
Blessed, blessed silence.
The boy shudders and collapses forward, spent, against his chest. He lifts his hand and tastes pure bitterness, sets the voices to screaming. They have given, now they receive, they are ecstatic.
Still hungry.
But when will he invoke us, let us out?
When will he touch us with alchemy?
When will WE have release?
Hush. Alphonse Elric says finally, and the rest of them shut up. Be patient. When it is finished, we all can be happy. When this is over, my brother can be happy.
Right now, my brother is beautiful. Isn’t that enough?
“Brother.” Scar agrees, happily, and brushes away tears as he rocks his savior to sleep.
::a hangover you don’t deserve::
A/N: And in case you didn't figure it out, in this AU, it was Scar who took the Stone into himself, not Alphonse - Alphonse became part of Scar, rather than the other way round. And poor Edward is trying to find a way to undo it, to use the Stone's power to extract the people - or at least, to extract poor Alphonse...
*goes to sleep*
Title: Hierophant
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Scar/Ed
Spoilers: AU ending, spoilers for anime up to 42.
Author's Notes: Kind of-sort of a rewrite of the concept I had before, only with more cohesive backplot and zomg, actual grammar this time XD
One foot, in front of another. One stride, coming just a bit nearer. The sand scoots aside, slips and catches, but his feet are broad and accustomed to its treachery: he does not trip and spill his precious cargo.
He carries it in two buckets, one for each hand. The water they draw here is thick and brackish, barely fit for human consumption; as a child they would have denied it horse-water. He would like to move them closer to the oasis, but that is a risk; and they take enough risks here in the ruins of Lior that he cannot bear to add one other. The military has largely given up hunting for them (largely), though there is a certain dark-haired soldier that comes patrolling, some nights, and he is troubled by the parts of himself that know who that man has to be.
One who would challenge!. Says a greedy voice.
Only because we take. Says a more temperate one.
The top of a dune squelches out from beneath him, and he tenses, unconsciously calls upon his second strength to keep his ankles from wobbling. The power coils in his veins, surges and ripples and turns his muscles into something more like unto steel.
The voices of the dead circle too, louder now, nip at his feet like so many flecks of sand. Some of them cry for vengeance, retribution. Some of them cry for their own absolution. Brother, one of them whispers, louder than all the others, and it is this one he knows best, thinks he probably even agrees with sometimes.
Brother.
They are part of his world now, like the sand; swirling bits of human debris. If you look close enough at sand, you realize that it used to be rock; as these voices once also used to be people. The landscape around him shifts as subtly as the one inside his body, and before he realizes it the sand has delivered him to their dwelling place, a tiny little campsite nestled in the shadow of what used to be a library. The sand is piling up to eat the brick, on the one side; the voices are piling up to eat his being on the other.
He enters their tent without ceremony or fanfare, merely slides his large form sideways into an impossibly narrow opening. The sands follow at his heels and they grate at him slightly. Niisan, the gentle voice says, louder now, in recognition.
There is a nondescript bundle of blankets in the center of the sleeping space, already swirled up and ready for nightfall. Like a moth in its cocoon, he thinks, doesn’t hesitate to unwrap it. He notes with some pleasure how dark the boy’s skin is, how much he is given to resemble Ishvala’s own, of late. The sun favors him. Some of the voices seem to agree, shift ever so slightly beneath the tapestry that is his skin.
My baby, my baby- A mother.
Five li, six li, seven, a ten-piece! A slaver.
He understands what they say, but whether they speak his own people’s tongue or some other, he cannot discern.
“Water.” The boy says, and a slim hand offers up a wooden bowl. Offers it up reluctantly, with a hesitant waiver. Golden eyes flicker uncertainly to the vessels in his hands, as if not expecting them to be real.
“There is more.” He acknowledges, and sets them carefully to one side. “It is not very good.”
“It’s okay, I could use some alkali in this thing I’m working on.” His companion - brother! - mutters, waves his good hand briefly. He has begun to take on the semblance of a desert brush-bird, at times - his movements are muted and light, apprehensive and darting. His hair is long and everywhere, even constrained it is not truly contained. He reaches down and places one hand at the base of that braid, feels the little one shiver and melt. He will take that hair down and pull his hands through it, this night; he will uncover that bronzed skin reverently and anoint it with oils.
Sinner. Says a shrieking voice, like the leaders at temple.
Saint Says a buttery voice, like the whores waiting outside in the alley.
Brother. Says the nice voice again, and the sound is sympathetic. He chooses to just ignore all of them for now.
He slides his fingers to the head of the braid, starts to carefully unwind it. There are many cloth ties keeping it bound, and he undoes them all in turn, unravels the soft plaits until they ripple in his fingers like thick silky waves.
Shave it. One voice calls, distant and empty. This is your enemy. He deserves it. He yanks momentarily, but it is his own hair that he pulls. “Put out not another tongue unless yours can say you are fully without blame.” Ishvala has taught him. “Brothers have long memories; accuse not your own lest he bring charge against you.”
The alchemist - proud word, made humble in this feather-light form - says not a word. Relaxes only slightly into the pressure on his scalp. His hair spins itself the rest of the way out to its natural conclusion, a cloud of sun-bleached yellow wisps, and it is too much to ask not to press a kiss into the tangled mass. Brother’s hair is always mussed, because he never dries it after his bath, and then Mother used to fuss; Mother had such a beautiful laugh, right up until Mother -
- died in the last great pox epidemic, and NOT in a parlor in a farmhouse in the middle of green. The part of him that is the Stone pulses ominously. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Forgetting control. The voices are the landscape; the voices are the sand. Must keep walking, over dunes that keep shifting. One false step, and he will sink into the earth.
He reaches for the buckets and dips the cleanest cloth he has into the dark waters. He himself can wash for days on only a single bucket; he has an efficient method for getting the worst of the sweat, uses sand to scour off most of the filth first. His companion is a hot-house orchid though, withered much when transposed to the desert. Watering him is a luxury he must risk instead, and though water is a precious commodity, he still spends a bucket every now and again on that (beautiful) hair, because it means rather much to a part of him. He will bathe those tresses in a bucket all their own, and tilt the rest of the contents down the boy’s muscled back, wash him carefully, take good care of him.
The voices jibber and approve, because they see in this desert bird the key to their salvation, revenge, rebirth, death, peace.
But not a god. He reminds himself, roughly, tugs the robes off boney shoulders perhaps harder than he ought. Just a man.
Just a boy. It is a boy’s body looking back at him, blushing, with his knees to his chest; embarrassed at his masculinity, the quiet commanding strength of his hands.
“…I can wash myself, you know.” The alchemist says, though they both know it is a lie. He has not quite learned the conservation of water; his false miracles can draw the excess up to the top of the ground but not put it back in the washtub. Water is like blood; once it is spilled there is no going back.
And how many thousand lives were spilled to create his form, he wonders? He presses the rag to the boy’s back and listens to them jibber at the way his companion gasps. So many questions he has for them, and so few they care to ever answer.
He washes the youth slowly, reverently; milks the cloth for every bit of moisture it is worth before going for more. The boy squirms, uncomfortable, at the cloth on his back, on his chest, up his neck and down his legs. Gasps, ever so slightly, as the wetness drags closer, low across his belly button, closes his eyes furiously as his hips begin to rock a little.
He is only a boy, and the attention excites him.
He spreads the alchemist’s legs roughly and runs the cloth down there, too; watches in fascination at the play of sensation on a marvelously open face.
“Beautiful,” he says, speaks for a woman ten years gone. “You are the color of morning.”
“Beautiful,” he says, for a soldier far from home. “I missed this, so much.”
“Don’t be cruel.” The alchemist gasps. There are tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Just fucking do it.”
He is hurt but this is nothing personal; sometimes, they speak through him, and sometimes, it easier just to let them out. He is an adult and live with the consequences. Being stoic is too much like walking on quicksand; the harder he fights it, the more they try to pull him under. Best to traipse on the dune ridge and dabble in madness, than lose all they’ve worked for by breaking completely. He is damned of Ishvala, there would be no heaven for any of their souls.
“Brother.” He lies instead, to make the boy compliant, and the alchemist shudders and doesn’t deny him.
He pulls the boy into his lap, has him straddle his thighs; runs one hand down along the curve of the boy’s ass, squeezes it in the way he knows the boy likes. The boy gasps and jerks hard against the plane of his stomach, lets out a low, needy whimper. He is usually silent, sound means he is hurting; he slides one large hand (secretly soft, calluses don’t last long in the sand) down and wraps it around the point of the ache.
A sharp inhalation, and then he begins to move, slides his thick hand up and down and up and down, squeezes sharply. The boy’s metal limbs, frozen solid by grit, continue hanging motionless, but his flesh ones can jerk, and they do so, repeatedly.
The boy's mouth works soundlessly, whether he speaks to a deity or not, he cannot discern. The ache must be easing now because sound does not return, and he arches his back like an angel in flight, and the voices yammer and praise in the thousands, tens of thousands.
Our savior, our beloved-
No goddess but Ishvala. He tries to reason. No other gods are true.
This god will deliver us.
This boy will grant us peace.
Brother will give me my body back. I can’t wait. I don’t want to keep living in this one.
DELIVER US.
They want to touch his power, want to worship; he presses his lips to salty skin and lets them offer themselves. Their strength crackles around him, rumbles through him, and he is vaguely aware he is glowing. The Stone is alive inside himself, active and hungry, and he presses his hands harder, faster, needs to worship with his hands and mouth and body and mind. Power calls to power, and Edward Elric is the closest thing to hope the Stone has had in years.
When the boy comes, with a noiseless shout, it is as if the voices all hold their breaths, too.
Blessed, blessed silence.
The boy shudders and collapses forward, spent, against his chest. He lifts his hand and tastes pure bitterness, sets the voices to screaming. They have given, now they receive, they are ecstatic.
Still hungry.
But when will he invoke us, let us out?
When will he touch us with alchemy?
When will WE have release?
Hush. Alphonse Elric says finally, and the rest of them shut up. Be patient. When it is finished, we all can be happy. When this is over, my brother can be happy.
Right now, my brother is beautiful. Isn’t that enough?
“Brother.” Scar agrees, happily, and brushes away tears as he rocks his savior to sleep.
::a hangover you don’t deserve::
A/N: And in case you didn't figure it out, in this AU, it was Scar who took the Stone into himself, not Alphonse - Alphonse became part of Scar, rather than the other way round. And poor Edward is trying to find a way to undo it, to use the Stone's power to extract the people - or at least, to extract poor Alphonse...