Fic: Skin's Memory (FMA, Hawkeye/Havoc, R)
This actually isn't one of the trip fics -- it's something I wrote for fma_fic_contest a month ago and forgot to repost here. *facepalm* Oh well, here it is now.
Skin's Memory
Almost she could just go with this.
Fullmetal Alchemist mangaverse, Hawkeye/Havoc. 500 words.
Spoilers through chapter 62 of the manga. R-ish, but probably worksafe.
Riza's body curves against Havoc's, his hands low and close on her hips. His hot mouth tastes like coffee and cigarettes. Almost she could just go with this --
And his hands slide up her back, across the scars she knows he cannot feel through her shirt but that she feels as slick half-numb patches. She remembers. Pulls back.
"Riza?" He blinks down at her. The clearsky-blue of his eyes blazes a narrow ring around his pupil.
"Wait," she says. Her voice feels thick and sticky in her mouth. "I just -- I need to show you something." What bubbles up through her belly is not fear, but it is apprehension. She has been so careful, all her life. No one has seen her back except her father (now dead), her doctors (oathsworn to secrecy), and -- Roy, who is both criminal and victim of the signs there, just as she is.
"Something wrong?" Havoc asks. Riza knows that the answer is both yes and no, and also that she can answer nothing that will make sense to him.
"Just wait," she says, and turns, and begins to unbutton her shirt.
Havoc is perhaps the most loyal human being she has ever met; he would never betray her great secret. But she is not sure that, with the taste of him on her lips and the touch of his hands still a burning presences in her skin's memory, she can bear to see revulsion or pity in him.
Her shirt falls with a whisper of crisp cotton, and she can hear the breath whoosh out of Havoc behind her.
There is no sound for a frozen minute, and she realizes that she is not breathing. She can see as if through his eyes: red lines, stark and delicate, on her back -- and even starker and not at all delicate, her silvery-thick scar tissue.
Then she feels his hand, electric on her skin, settling on the small of her back. She knows without looking that it rests at the bottom of the tattoo, where the crowned serpents wind to form the alembic's base.
"How -- " he begins.
"It was my father," she says, and then, quickly, "not Roy." (That is part a lie, and someday she will explain, but right now she cannot say that Roy burned her, that she asked him to, that she is daily relieved that he did.) She inhales, and says, steadily, "You don't mind?"
Havoc laughs, and she is so startled she twists face him. "Riza," he says, "you're -- so pretty, and you're here, and you've got really -- I mean, you look really good. And I like you. I wouldn't care if you had the blueprints for Central Command on your back. ...Unless you mind."
"No," she says, and for once, for this small moment, it is true. "No," she says. Her fingers wind up into his hair and pull him down to kiss him again, to taste him again, without the barrier of cloth between them.
Skin's Memory
Almost she could just go with this.
Fullmetal Alchemist mangaverse, Hawkeye/Havoc. 500 words.
Spoilers through chapter 62 of the manga. R-ish, but probably worksafe.
Riza's body curves against Havoc's, his hands low and close on her hips. His hot mouth tastes like coffee and cigarettes. Almost she could just go with this --
And his hands slide up her back, across the scars she knows he cannot feel through her shirt but that she feels as slick half-numb patches. She remembers. Pulls back.
"Riza?" He blinks down at her. The clearsky-blue of his eyes blazes a narrow ring around his pupil.
"Wait," she says. Her voice feels thick and sticky in her mouth. "I just -- I need to show you something." What bubbles up through her belly is not fear, but it is apprehension. She has been so careful, all her life. No one has seen her back except her father (now dead), her doctors (oathsworn to secrecy), and -- Roy, who is both criminal and victim of the signs there, just as she is.
"Something wrong?" Havoc asks. Riza knows that the answer is both yes and no, and also that she can answer nothing that will make sense to him.
"Just wait," she says, and turns, and begins to unbutton her shirt.
Havoc is perhaps the most loyal human being she has ever met; he would never betray her great secret. But she is not sure that, with the taste of him on her lips and the touch of his hands still a burning presences in her skin's memory, she can bear to see revulsion or pity in him.
Her shirt falls with a whisper of crisp cotton, and she can hear the breath whoosh out of Havoc behind her.
There is no sound for a frozen minute, and she realizes that she is not breathing. She can see as if through his eyes: red lines, stark and delicate, on her back -- and even starker and not at all delicate, her silvery-thick scar tissue.
Then she feels his hand, electric on her skin, settling on the small of her back. She knows without looking that it rests at the bottom of the tattoo, where the crowned serpents wind to form the alembic's base.
"How -- " he begins.
"It was my father," she says, and then, quickly, "not Roy." (That is part a lie, and someday she will explain, but right now she cannot say that Roy burned her, that she asked him to, that she is daily relieved that he did.) She inhales, and says, steadily, "You don't mind?"
Havoc laughs, and she is so startled she twists face him. "Riza," he says, "you're -- so pretty, and you're here, and you've got really -- I mean, you look really good. And I like you. I wouldn't care if you had the blueprints for Central Command on your back. ...Unless you mind."
"No," she says, and for once, for this small moment, it is true. "No," she says. Her fingers wind up into his hair and pull him down to kiss him again, to taste him again, without the barrier of cloth between them.