Polychromasia - Dante/Lust - NC-17
Title: Polychromasia
Author: theladyfeylene
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Dante/Lust
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: 04, Routine
Word Count: 700
Spoilers: Full series
Summary: Twined together in the throes of passion, they are a tapestry of cold colors and dark hues.
In a room, in a mansion that lays beneath the ground, there is a bed. Its posts are hand-carved, imitating serpentine dragons. The knob of each post is a head. Clawed feet rest against the frame. Small clawed hands are held at chest height, and wings cling tightly to wooden draconian backs. The sheets are amaranthine, the color of sunset as the sun dips beneath the horizon. In the candle light, they eye cannot tell if the sheets are dark red or dark violet, or perhaps both at once.
The bed rests between two high windows. Gilt frames surround the glass, filigree stretching and twisting in nonsense patterns designed to please the eye. There are plush carpets on the floor. This is a queen’s bedroom, a palatial suite.
The eye returns to the bed. Amongst the amaranthine sheets, stretched like a wolf in repose, there is a woman. She is nude. Her melanic hair falls in waves over her bare shoulders, shielding the view of her breasts. Her eyes are aubergine, peircing. Her skin is eburnean, porcelain. She is a portrait in monochrome, pale and dark broken only by the piercing heliotrope of her eyes. The line of her back is sinuous. It is a perfect contour from shoulder to arch of foot.
There is no sound within the room. The opening of the door is silent. Enters another woman. She is petite. Her sable hair is cut sharply about her chin, severe. Her features are small, sharp, commanding. Puprureal eyes watch, unblinking, taking in the room. She has been here many times before, and will come many times again.
The monochrome woman on the bed belongs to her.
“Lust.” The word is a weighty whisper in the silence of the cavernous room. Lust is the name of the woman on the bed; and the nature. She turns, rolling lazily, displaying proud breasts and wide hips. Her hair spills about her head like a cloud.
“Master.”
The petite woman of the sharp hair and eyes has no other name than this, not to the woman known as Lust. Only master. The master smiles, thin lips twisting in a mockery of delight. She approaches the bed, bare feet making no sound on the carpet. The bed dips beneath her slight weight. Lust reaches out a hand, leucochroic in the flickering candle light.
Fabric rustles and falls to the floor. Porcelain skin meets porcelain skin. Aubergine lips brush against pyrrhous blushed cheeks. Sleek legs twine between sleek legs, writhing in a sensual feminine dance. The amaranthine sheets tangle, pulled and twisted by frisking fingers and flexuous feet.
Now there is sound. The whisper of skin on sheets. The percussion of skin on skin. The subtle sigh of lips caressing that sweet flesh that lies between a woman’s thighs. The world is stained blush and sweat. The sheets are torn from the bed. Bodies arch and twist and writhe in a promenade of pleasure. There are gasps. There are sighs. There are moans and whimpers and breathless ululations as climax is reached.
The master is limp on the bed. Now, lying still, the haematic bruises of sickly skin are visible on her body. There, at her hip. Here at her ankle. They are small but striking on her niveous hued skin, like spilled ink on paper. Lust ignores them. She rises from the bed, hair spilling behind her like a cloak. Her body is bathed in sweat. She pours a glass of wine from a bottle on a dresser, ignoring the master. She seems to glow in the candlelight, ethereal and other worldly.
The master covers her imperfect body and leaves the room without a word, silence returning like a cloud. She will return tomorrow, and again the next day, returning again and again to the bed of Lust to sate her hedonistic pleasures.
The wine glass in her hand, Lust moves to the window. She stands silently before the great edifice of gilt and filigree and watches the necropolis below. Her aubergine eyes narrow, gleaming with ah unholy light. There is one thought in her mind, as her body slowly cools from the heat of copulation.
Everything in this place is dead.
Author: theladyfeylene
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Dante/Lust
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: 04, Routine
Word Count: 700
Spoilers: Full series
Summary: Twined together in the throes of passion, they are a tapestry of cold colors and dark hues.
In a room, in a mansion that lays beneath the ground, there is a bed. Its posts are hand-carved, imitating serpentine dragons. The knob of each post is a head. Clawed feet rest against the frame. Small clawed hands are held at chest height, and wings cling tightly to wooden draconian backs. The sheets are amaranthine, the color of sunset as the sun dips beneath the horizon. In the candle light, they eye cannot tell if the sheets are dark red or dark violet, or perhaps both at once.
The bed rests between two high windows. Gilt frames surround the glass, filigree stretching and twisting in nonsense patterns designed to please the eye. There are plush carpets on the floor. This is a queen’s bedroom, a palatial suite.
The eye returns to the bed. Amongst the amaranthine sheets, stretched like a wolf in repose, there is a woman. She is nude. Her melanic hair falls in waves over her bare shoulders, shielding the view of her breasts. Her eyes are aubergine, peircing. Her skin is eburnean, porcelain. She is a portrait in monochrome, pale and dark broken only by the piercing heliotrope of her eyes. The line of her back is sinuous. It is a perfect contour from shoulder to arch of foot.
There is no sound within the room. The opening of the door is silent. Enters another woman. She is petite. Her sable hair is cut sharply about her chin, severe. Her features are small, sharp, commanding. Puprureal eyes watch, unblinking, taking in the room. She has been here many times before, and will come many times again.
The monochrome woman on the bed belongs to her.
“Lust.” The word is a weighty whisper in the silence of the cavernous room. Lust is the name of the woman on the bed; and the nature. She turns, rolling lazily, displaying proud breasts and wide hips. Her hair spills about her head like a cloud.
“Master.”
The petite woman of the sharp hair and eyes has no other name than this, not to the woman known as Lust. Only master. The master smiles, thin lips twisting in a mockery of delight. She approaches the bed, bare feet making no sound on the carpet. The bed dips beneath her slight weight. Lust reaches out a hand, leucochroic in the flickering candle light.
Fabric rustles and falls to the floor. Porcelain skin meets porcelain skin. Aubergine lips brush against pyrrhous blushed cheeks. Sleek legs twine between sleek legs, writhing in a sensual feminine dance. The amaranthine sheets tangle, pulled and twisted by frisking fingers and flexuous feet.
Now there is sound. The whisper of skin on sheets. The percussion of skin on skin. The subtle sigh of lips caressing that sweet flesh that lies between a woman’s thighs. The world is stained blush and sweat. The sheets are torn from the bed. Bodies arch and twist and writhe in a promenade of pleasure. There are gasps. There are sighs. There are moans and whimpers and breathless ululations as climax is reached.
The master is limp on the bed. Now, lying still, the haematic bruises of sickly skin are visible on her body. There, at her hip. Here at her ankle. They are small but striking on her niveous hued skin, like spilled ink on paper. Lust ignores them. She rises from the bed, hair spilling behind her like a cloak. Her body is bathed in sweat. She pours a glass of wine from a bottle on a dresser, ignoring the master. She seems to glow in the candlelight, ethereal and other worldly.
The master covers her imperfect body and leaves the room without a word, silence returning like a cloud. She will return tomorrow, and again the next day, returning again and again to the bed of Lust to sate her hedonistic pleasures.
The wine glass in her hand, Lust moves to the window. She stands silently before the great edifice of gilt and filigree and watches the necropolis below. Her aubergine eyes narrow, gleaming with ah unholy light. There is one thought in her mind, as her body slowly cools from the heat of copulation.
Everything in this place is dead.