Royai for 10_passions [Theme # 2; Along the Moonlit Bay]
Title: The Classic Perception of Beauty [Theme # 2; Along the Moonlit Bay]
Author: galuxkitty
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy Mustang/Riza Hawkeye
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: 1225
Warnings: Chapter 57 spoilers, symbolism galore, sex.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is the property of Hiromu Arakawa. This is a fanwork written purely for both your entertainment and mine.
A brief note: Some of this has to be left up to imagination and interpretation until more details are revealed about the nature of the array; please do not flame me for having to work around the plotholes still left by the series by using my own interpretation.
It was somewhat of an enigma, how everything seemed more beautiful, more at peace in the dark of night. But even the night was not purely a dark thing; there was always the moonlight, a classic image of beauty idolized through the ages, a reflection of elegance and a representation of the finesse of anything the pale light happened to fall upon.
The moonlight on her skin was like a recurring dream, a mirage of the past outlined with the fragility of the future. It was easier for him to sleep on the calm, moonlit nights with her than alone; it was easy to find the sleep, but not the dream. It was a complement to him, he thought, that she always slept on her stomach, hair tucked neatly under her shoulder and eyes shut in a gentle requiem to the day. She was all he loved about the darkness; the smell of the dew on skin, the pale curve of a breast highlighted in the unnaturally pale moonlight, the soft whisper of breath being expelled across fresh cotton sheets.
Night was a time for sleep, but it was always better when she woke, looked at him, stretched and made the scarred red lines etched into her back distort and elongate as her skin rippled from the movement of her spine.
Enticing as it was entrancing, she rolled back onto her stomach, eyes dark with too many emotions for him to decipher in the short time that it took for him to close the space between them and kiss her, feel her shift onto her side and shiver as his hand cradled the back of her neck, keeping her closer than necessary even after their lips parted.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead and then shifted away from her, watched the array on her skin contort with the movement of her hips as she lay with her stomach down against the sheets, arms and hair splayed out across the pillows, her gaze now only holding a mixture of challenge, lust and wicked appreciation.
The array was scarred, blurred. She was the closest he thought he would ever find to the trivial idea of human perfection.
He lay across her with the reverence of one holding the very epitome of the world and life in their hand, left arm sliding easily beneath her body and the smooth sheets of the bed and coming to rest across her belly, fingers drumming lightly, amusedly on her hipbone as his right hand slid up to brush a few delicate strands of gold away from her back.
Perhaps there was some strange symbolism in his array, his representation in his field of expertise being with her always. She held his strength on her body, carved onto her skin.
It was an icon of loyalty.
He began to trace the fine lines of the array with his tongue, following the familiar pattern in his mind’s eye as he felt gooseflesh rise on her body under the soft caress of his tongue and the press of his lips against the small flame drawn between her shoulder blades.
“Riza,” he purred as he brushed his thumb over the finely detailed, red salamander, highlighted softly by the moonlight coming through the window. His hand shifted to cover the roughened scars that broke the intricate array, some sort of fierce protective instinct welling up in his chest as she gave a soft sigh at his touch upon the sensitive flesh and whispered, “Guilt begets guilt, Roy.”
It was not something to be concerned about now. He pressed a kiss to the fine print of the ancient words depicted on her flesh in shades of red, words that would mean nothing to the average man but held the weight of the world for him, words she could never understand but he would try to explain through action and emotion, loyalty and courage.
You hold my power. You hold it and keep it safe, and I’ll use it to protect you.
He moved his body away from hers but kept his hand on the tattoo, feeling at ease with the familiar pattern under his hand. Riza shifted onto her side and contemplated him with dark eyes and pale, moonlight-bleached skin, a fine art separate to the elaborate symbol on her back. Old memories of the fierce red prominent in the eyes of the Ishvarites becoming evermore fierce in the moonlit desert fade and are replaced by the images of the sigil on her skin, pale in comparison to the glow of her skin on clean white sheets and over him as she moves over him with all the deftness and certainty he could ever think she had. The curtains rippled, disturbed by a gentle breeze and this simple change alone sends dappled patterns of light and dark over her body as he lies back comfortably against the wall and the pillows and rises to meet her breast, the firmness and fragility of her skin.
This was where the slowness, the reverence and the patience, stopped and dissolved into something too slow for desperation, too much of a rush for the traditional vision of slow, passionate lovemaking but something unique and their own regardless of the circumstances and the outside influences that made them think in terms of right and wrong.
“Roy...”
A hiss of appreciation and gratification as he guided himself into her body, pressed a soft kiss to the soft curve of her breast and felt her all around him, invading his senses and giving him life anew instead of meagre existence. To him, she held his power, his strength, his world and the latter merely shrank to include the milky rise of her breast, the moan of appreciation that escaped her throat as his tongue ran across her areola, the warmth and safety of her body and the strangled gasp and closing in of his already narrowed but safe world as she reached orgasm, kissed him long and deep and continued tempting him with shallow little movements of her hips until he lurched forward, threw his arms around her tightly and offered his all to her, complete and deep and with the feeling of overwhelming finality.
They stayed like this afterward, her gently trembling fingers threaded through his hair, his soft, warm breath spanning across her breasts and his arms and hands moving slowly up and down her back feeling smooth lines, neat sigils and symbols and rough scars. As soon as he felt he had learned for the night, all over again and anew for the next day he loosened his grip and allowed himself to fall back and for her to collapse over him, warm and spent and contented.
Long after she had fallen asleep, he found himself lying awake and letting his fingers trace over the elaborate array on her back in shades of white and grey provided by the slow, lazy movement of the curtains in the breeze and the variation of the light.
He was still awake the next morning when she awoke to the feeling of him trying to trace the ruined, scarred array back to perfection with his fingertips. She knew there was really no need, but revelled in the feeling nonetheless.
It was his own way of showing day in, day out that he needed her.
“Moonlight is sculpture.”
~ Nathaniel Hawthorne
END
Comments make GK happy.
Author: galuxkitty
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy Mustang/Riza Hawkeye
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: 1225
Warnings: Chapter 57 spoilers, symbolism galore, sex.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is the property of Hiromu Arakawa. This is a fanwork written purely for both your entertainment and mine.
A brief note: Some of this has to be left up to imagination and interpretation until more details are revealed about the nature of the array; please do not flame me for having to work around the plotholes still left by the series by using my own interpretation.
It was somewhat of an enigma, how everything seemed more beautiful, more at peace in the dark of night. But even the night was not purely a dark thing; there was always the moonlight, a classic image of beauty idolized through the ages, a reflection of elegance and a representation of the finesse of anything the pale light happened to fall upon.
The moonlight on her skin was like a recurring dream, a mirage of the past outlined with the fragility of the future. It was easier for him to sleep on the calm, moonlit nights with her than alone; it was easy to find the sleep, but not the dream. It was a complement to him, he thought, that she always slept on her stomach, hair tucked neatly under her shoulder and eyes shut in a gentle requiem to the day. She was all he loved about the darkness; the smell of the dew on skin, the pale curve of a breast highlighted in the unnaturally pale moonlight, the soft whisper of breath being expelled across fresh cotton sheets.
Night was a time for sleep, but it was always better when she woke, looked at him, stretched and made the scarred red lines etched into her back distort and elongate as her skin rippled from the movement of her spine.
Enticing as it was entrancing, she rolled back onto her stomach, eyes dark with too many emotions for him to decipher in the short time that it took for him to close the space between them and kiss her, feel her shift onto her side and shiver as his hand cradled the back of her neck, keeping her closer than necessary even after their lips parted.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead and then shifted away from her, watched the array on her skin contort with the movement of her hips as she lay with her stomach down against the sheets, arms and hair splayed out across the pillows, her gaze now only holding a mixture of challenge, lust and wicked appreciation.
The array was scarred, blurred. She was the closest he thought he would ever find to the trivial idea of human perfection.
He lay across her with the reverence of one holding the very epitome of the world and life in their hand, left arm sliding easily beneath her body and the smooth sheets of the bed and coming to rest across her belly, fingers drumming lightly, amusedly on her hipbone as his right hand slid up to brush a few delicate strands of gold away from her back.
Perhaps there was some strange symbolism in his array, his representation in his field of expertise being with her always. She held his strength on her body, carved onto her skin.
It was an icon of loyalty.
He began to trace the fine lines of the array with his tongue, following the familiar pattern in his mind’s eye as he felt gooseflesh rise on her body under the soft caress of his tongue and the press of his lips against the small flame drawn between her shoulder blades.
“Riza,” he purred as he brushed his thumb over the finely detailed, red salamander, highlighted softly by the moonlight coming through the window. His hand shifted to cover the roughened scars that broke the intricate array, some sort of fierce protective instinct welling up in his chest as she gave a soft sigh at his touch upon the sensitive flesh and whispered, “Guilt begets guilt, Roy.”
It was not something to be concerned about now. He pressed a kiss to the fine print of the ancient words depicted on her flesh in shades of red, words that would mean nothing to the average man but held the weight of the world for him, words she could never understand but he would try to explain through action and emotion, loyalty and courage.
You hold my power. You hold it and keep it safe, and I’ll use it to protect you.
He moved his body away from hers but kept his hand on the tattoo, feeling at ease with the familiar pattern under his hand. Riza shifted onto her side and contemplated him with dark eyes and pale, moonlight-bleached skin, a fine art separate to the elaborate symbol on her back. Old memories of the fierce red prominent in the eyes of the Ishvarites becoming evermore fierce in the moonlit desert fade and are replaced by the images of the sigil on her skin, pale in comparison to the glow of her skin on clean white sheets and over him as she moves over him with all the deftness and certainty he could ever think she had. The curtains rippled, disturbed by a gentle breeze and this simple change alone sends dappled patterns of light and dark over her body as he lies back comfortably against the wall and the pillows and rises to meet her breast, the firmness and fragility of her skin.
This was where the slowness, the reverence and the patience, stopped and dissolved into something too slow for desperation, too much of a rush for the traditional vision of slow, passionate lovemaking but something unique and their own regardless of the circumstances and the outside influences that made them think in terms of right and wrong.
“Roy...”
A hiss of appreciation and gratification as he guided himself into her body, pressed a soft kiss to the soft curve of her breast and felt her all around him, invading his senses and giving him life anew instead of meagre existence. To him, she held his power, his strength, his world and the latter merely shrank to include the milky rise of her breast, the moan of appreciation that escaped her throat as his tongue ran across her areola, the warmth and safety of her body and the strangled gasp and closing in of his already narrowed but safe world as she reached orgasm, kissed him long and deep and continued tempting him with shallow little movements of her hips until he lurched forward, threw his arms around her tightly and offered his all to her, complete and deep and with the feeling of overwhelming finality.
They stayed like this afterward, her gently trembling fingers threaded through his hair, his soft, warm breath spanning across her breasts and his arms and hands moving slowly up and down her back feeling smooth lines, neat sigils and symbols and rough scars. As soon as he felt he had learned for the night, all over again and anew for the next day he loosened his grip and allowed himself to fall back and for her to collapse over him, warm and spent and contented.
Long after she had fallen asleep, he found himself lying awake and letting his fingers trace over the elaborate array on her back in shades of white and grey provided by the slow, lazy movement of the curtains in the breeze and the variation of the light.
He was still awake the next morning when she awoke to the feeling of him trying to trace the ruined, scarred array back to perfection with his fingertips. She knew there was really no need, but revelled in the feeling nonetheless.
It was his own way of showing day in, day out that he needed her.
“Moonlight is sculpture.”
~ Nathaniel Hawthorne
END
Comments make GK happy.