[fic] FMA: Lust [gen]
Way back I did a Greed piece, so I suppose this can be considered a companion piece to that. Not as much wordplay though, but I ♥ Lust something fierce.
Lust
It is not about the sex, although when she tries it she discovers that the sex is easy. He is heavy on top of her and loud and sweaty and rather ungainly, things she understands as being all too human. In fact, this moment suddenly becomes the picture of all their little lives in miniature: he is all urgency and need, fast and selfish as if life is too short and he can’t get enough of it. And it is, she wants to tell him, wants to run her fingers down his cheeks and across his taut, heaving chest, and then her nails through his fluttering heart. It is.
But it’s not about the sex, which is over too soon and isn’t satisfying at all in itself. It’s about everything but the sex. It’s about the secret agony of yearning, of wanting so bad that it physically hurts. It is a dance of denial and indulgence, of submitting to the indecency of a natural act. It’s the moment leading up to that first stolen touch when the heat of skin on skin explodes like sunbursts on the flesh. It’s the haunting daydream of that first touch played over and over again in the mind and knowing the possibility of its reality to be impossible. It’s about cruelty. It’s about ignorance. It’s about an appreciation so fundamental it cannot be explained.
It’s about power. Having it. Not having it.
And she likes the power. Likes the look in their eyes. Likes that moment when she is the only thing in their minds and she holds them in the palm of her ungentle hand.
Only then does she feel alive. Only for this does she Lust.
Lust
It is not about the sex, although when she tries it she discovers that the sex is easy. He is heavy on top of her and loud and sweaty and rather ungainly, things she understands as being all too human. In fact, this moment suddenly becomes the picture of all their little lives in miniature: he is all urgency and need, fast and selfish as if life is too short and he can’t get enough of it. And it is, she wants to tell him, wants to run her fingers down his cheeks and across his taut, heaving chest, and then her nails through his fluttering heart. It is.
But it’s not about the sex, which is over too soon and isn’t satisfying at all in itself. It’s about everything but the sex. It’s about the secret agony of yearning, of wanting so bad that it physically hurts. It is a dance of denial and indulgence, of submitting to the indecency of a natural act. It’s the moment leading up to that first stolen touch when the heat of skin on skin explodes like sunbursts on the flesh. It’s the haunting daydream of that first touch played over and over again in the mind and knowing the possibility of its reality to be impossible. It’s about cruelty. It’s about ignorance. It’s about an appreciation so fundamental it cannot be explained.
It’s about power. Having it. Not having it.
And she likes the power. Likes the look in their eyes. Likes that moment when she is the only thing in their minds and she holds them in the palm of her ungentle hand.
Only then does she feel alive. Only for this does she Lust.