Drabbles
The FMA one is based on Coyo's amazing WIP 'Sex Alchemists'. Which, Hyne willing, she will continue.
Ed, a healthy young adult male, had few hobbies that didn’t include work in some fashion. Roy found this amusing and a little frightening at times because music was wonderful but it wasn’t *everything*. Regardless of his own sometimes obsessive relationship with his guitar. Roy at least knew how to talk to people.
The one hobby that didn’t seem to revolve around Ed writing music, playing music, perfecting music or trying to eat more than Al, turned out to be dancing. Which of course involved music but thankfully Ed wasn’t making the music, only appreciating it.
Which left Roy to appreciate Ed’s… appreciation.
The boy moved like pure sex and aggression, every twist and flex as reactive and instinctive as an animal, as practiced as a martial art, and as seductive as a professional whore. It wasn’t that Ed *meant* to come across as a perfectly willing and practiced partner to anyone on the dance floor, but with his looks, and attitude, well, he gave people ideas.
He didn’t have to mean it, people felt it anyway. Roy wasn’t immune, not by a long shot, but familiarity with that lithe figure and the temper inside it meant he knew that, while Ed might dance with anyone, he was free to no one. And the idea of dancing with Ed with no hope of ever doing more than that, put a damper on his ardor.
They worked well together, played amazing music together, and could rack up an astonishing amount of trouble together. But Ed wasn’t looking to settle down, or even slow down, and he kept his heart locked away behind more fences than Roy was willing to face for the possibility Ed might still walk away. Despite his reputation Roy Mustang wasn’t easy, he just wasn’t sure.
Ed moved to the pounding bass of a techno song, hair down and chest bare, eyes closed to better feel the sound, and Roy sipped his scotch and watched with half lidded eyes.
And the KH one is um.... I have no ever loving clue really
Leon shook his head, scrabbling at the wall in front of him with clawed fists, fighting the voice in his head far harder than the phantom sensations that bombarded his body. His body was a tool, it was safe to sacrifice.
Come to me, my knight. Come and let me heal you, let me fill you with my power. Squall, do you think you can hide from me?
“Not hiding you bitch.” His fist hit the soot covered brick leaving a streak of crimson to mingle with the black, knuckles ripped open to the bone. Nails gripped his hair and the talons ripping at his back left phantasm furrows bleeding. The length in him forced him open a bit further, his innards as raw as the wounds he inflicted against himself on the abandoned town house in third district.
I can stop this. I can make you feel anything I want, pain, pleasure, rape, ecstasy. You are my doll, Squall, my plaything. I own you. Come home.
“Bite me witch.”
Once, long ago in another lifetime, the answering crackle of electricity flooding his system might have broken him, might have made him scream and beg and crawl back to his mistress on bended knee. Squall might have given in after the second or third assault on his mind and body by people and things that left no marks, no evidence of the travesty.
Leon just bit his tongue and bore it.
You can’t last forever against me. What are you protecting? A town that doesn’t know you? A few people who’s names you’ll forget in a year? You are nothing, no one, not even strong enough to be a No Body. Come home, Squall, and all will be forgiven.
He pushed her back, slamming his broken hand against the wall until the bone shattered to bloody dust, letting the pain wash over the link to hit her back like she hit him. Eventually she gave up, receded, became a whisper in the darkness of his heart.
Ed, a healthy young adult male, had few hobbies that didn’t include work in some fashion. Roy found this amusing and a little frightening at times because music was wonderful but it wasn’t *everything*. Regardless of his own sometimes obsessive relationship with his guitar. Roy at least knew how to talk to people.
The one hobby that didn’t seem to revolve around Ed writing music, playing music, perfecting music or trying to eat more than Al, turned out to be dancing. Which of course involved music but thankfully Ed wasn’t making the music, only appreciating it.
Which left Roy to appreciate Ed’s… appreciation.
The boy moved like pure sex and aggression, every twist and flex as reactive and instinctive as an animal, as practiced as a martial art, and as seductive as a professional whore. It wasn’t that Ed *meant* to come across as a perfectly willing and practiced partner to anyone on the dance floor, but with his looks, and attitude, well, he gave people ideas.
He didn’t have to mean it, people felt it anyway. Roy wasn’t immune, not by a long shot, but familiarity with that lithe figure and the temper inside it meant he knew that, while Ed might dance with anyone, he was free to no one. And the idea of dancing with Ed with no hope of ever doing more than that, put a damper on his ardor.
They worked well together, played amazing music together, and could rack up an astonishing amount of trouble together. But Ed wasn’t looking to settle down, or even slow down, and he kept his heart locked away behind more fences than Roy was willing to face for the possibility Ed might still walk away. Despite his reputation Roy Mustang wasn’t easy, he just wasn’t sure.
Ed moved to the pounding bass of a techno song, hair down and chest bare, eyes closed to better feel the sound, and Roy sipped his scotch and watched with half lidded eyes.
And the KH one is um.... I have no ever loving clue really
Leon shook his head, scrabbling at the wall in front of him with clawed fists, fighting the voice in his head far harder than the phantom sensations that bombarded his body. His body was a tool, it was safe to sacrifice.
Come to me, my knight. Come and let me heal you, let me fill you with my power. Squall, do you think you can hide from me?
“Not hiding you bitch.” His fist hit the soot covered brick leaving a streak of crimson to mingle with the black, knuckles ripped open to the bone. Nails gripped his hair and the talons ripping at his back left phantasm furrows bleeding. The length in him forced him open a bit further, his innards as raw as the wounds he inflicted against himself on the abandoned town house in third district.
I can stop this. I can make you feel anything I want, pain, pleasure, rape, ecstasy. You are my doll, Squall, my plaything. I own you. Come home.
“Bite me witch.”
Once, long ago in another lifetime, the answering crackle of electricity flooding his system might have broken him, might have made him scream and beg and crawl back to his mistress on bended knee. Squall might have given in after the second or third assault on his mind and body by people and things that left no marks, no evidence of the travesty.
Leon just bit his tongue and bore it.
You can’t last forever against me. What are you protecting? A town that doesn’t know you? A few people who’s names you’ll forget in a year? You are nothing, no one, not even strong enough to be a No Body. Come home, Squall, and all will be forgiven.
He pushed her back, slamming his broken hand against the wall until the bone shattered to bloody dust, letting the pain wash over the link to hit her back like she hit him. Eventually she gave up, receded, became a whisper in the darkness of his heart.