(no subject)
Mar. 16th, 2004 03:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenThe ending of Kingdom Hearts somehow manages to be both pretty and gutwrenchingly sad at the same time. Sora. Kairi. RIKU. AWW. I don't know who to feel the most sorry for. Probably Riku, because he's been left in a Really Bad Position. But I feel for Kairi, too. Sora is being Sora and hopeful. At least the boys still have something they can immediately DO.
Also, Ansem is strangely hot. Even if that last fight with him goes on, and on, and on, and just DIE already? I Keyblade your Big Manly Bosom.
Right. Ficcage. Fullmetal Alchemist this time. Partly a response to the wankery that's been floating around, partly a response to the INSANE WINLY CUTENESS in ep 23, partly just general love....aaand partly a bad first attempt at sorta-pr0n. Moving on.
In retrospect Winly would have to admit the workbench wasn’t the best of places to curl up and sleep when there was a perfectly good bed down a few halls—but ‘down a few halls’ counted as ‘too far’ when one had pulled a near all-nighter finishing a special order and done a damn good job on it, too. Earned the rest, she thought but had to admit maybe, maybe the extra walk would’ve been worth it after all when she got up, cracked her back and winced at eight in the morning. There was sun on the walls, but she opted to rub her eyes and trust instinct to find the way. She shrugged out of her work clothes and went stumbling for a much needed shower.
The water felt good on her face, driving away the sleep-starved ache in her eyes and washing the sweat and grime off of her arms and out of her hair. These days she’d heard it was the trend of the city girls to cut their hair so short that it bounced around their cheeks, but Winly thought she could hold off on giving it a try. Long hair was maybe impractical in her line of work, took longer to wash too, but she always believed in doing things her way, and she liked the familiar tug of a ponytail, in the shower the wet strands plastered to her back.
Her latest patient had been quite amazed at the preference, bobbed hair and bracelets jingling, three necklaces swinging, the perfect picture of fashion with a limp. A woman from the north, who’d come in a year before for an artificial ankle. She danced, made her living on the stage, and had obviously been fairly successful, for the amount that she offered for the chance to stay up there, having followed the name Rockbell through word of an alchemist who’d passed her way. Winly liked her. She’d been easy and polite the first time and was easy and polite returning to request a tuning for a show she had coming up, it was starting to feel a little funny, and if it could be done soon, please? If it’s not too much trouble?
Winly had said sure. It was one of those exceptions she made from time to time. The woman was sure as hell a better regular than other people Winly could /name/, who skipped appointments. And slacked off on maintenance. And generally made royal pains in the asses of themselves. Who’d lose their bloody arm no matter how many times she’d screw it back on. So she’d agreed. Who needed eight hours of sleep anyway in this modern era? Not Winly Rockbell. She could run on three. Two, even, if she had a good shot of caffeine—she’d once argued that the existence of coffee proved the existence of God. The devout atheist sitting across from her at the time had looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or kill her.
Sleep. Sure, sleep was optional. Completely optional. Which was why the bed wasn’t calling her from through the door when she stepped out of the shower, toweling down her head and peering at her reflection with the lines under her eyes and tried to imagine what she’d look like if she /did/ go for a bob. No, it sure wasn’t. Nice as it might be to slide under the sheets—she tossed the towel without much care of where it landed and stalked out. To get clothes. No other reason. There was green in the window over the bed—it was spring, and bright enough she had to blink. The curtains were open. She shook her head.
Al never seemed to mind an excess of sunlight.
He was turned away from her, his shoulder a white rise under the sheets, the comforter a bunched mess at his waist and his feet sticking out, big and bare—a habit he’d never broken. He loved to stretch out and revel in every inch of the action like it was a guilty pleasure, loved to feel the daylight warm the skin of his cheek, which was turned towards window. He didn’t stir. Winly crept up, and leaned over, sliding a knee onto the mattress. She walked her fingers up his arm and gave him a pinch.
“Sleeping people don’t hold their breath.”
Al’s eyes were grey half-open in the morning,. Winly couldn’t see them at that angle, but she could imagine they were laughing, sleepily. “Ow,” he said. She pulled the sheet off his shoulder, and put her chin there instead.
“Anywaaay,” she yawned against his skin, letting herself drop down beside him. “M’done.”
“That’s good. You should rest.” He was probably right.
“…/mm/.” She said stubbornly. “Already did. Sore.” She slid her arm under his. “Not tired.”
“You sound tired.”
“Just took a shower.” She ran her palm along his side.
“Ah. I could tell. It’s cold.” It must’ve been especially easy with her wet hair soaking into his nightshirt; he said it like there couldn’t be anything better. “Rest, Winly,” he insisted, shifting as her fingers found the bare spot where the shirt had ridden up.
Al was so sensitive. Winly laughed quietly, wiggling closer. “No.” She touched his hip.
“No?”
“No.” She turned her face, kissed the back of his neck, where there was a faint mark that wasn’t so much a scar but a ghost of a bruise that hadn’t quite faded a long time ago. The heat rose there the moment her breath fanned it. Al made a funny noise at the back of his throat.
“/Winly/.”
She lifted her head. “Mm?”
“Um.” He swallowed. “Nothing.”
“Oh. Ok.” She pressed her nose into his hair, which was nice and soft and healthy smelling. “Not tired,” she persisted, in a clearer voice this time and, just in case that wasn’t clear enough, she thought the hand she slid over his hip and down front of his shorts might be more to the point.
Al came into full awareness with a sharp breath and a jump.
“/Oh/,” he said.
“Yeah.” Winly giggled. “That’s the idea.”
“I—I see--”
“Mm.” She closed her fingers around him. “Good morning, by the way.”
“...Morning,” he mumbled in a small voice, pushing a red cheek into his pillow. “Ah, sorry...I believe you now.”
“Thought so. Not too cold?”
“No.”
She squeezed. “Good.”
He was shaking a little. Over the blankets Winly could see it in his toes, and under the blankets she felt it moving up his spine and in his breath as he pressed his lips together and tried not to make too much noise. Which was silly, really; Al looked good in the morning light, his face round and earnest and flushed, with an edge of gold dancing in his darker hair, but his voice was the best part. It was more him than anything else. Older than anything else. Winly remembered, remembered taking hands that weren’t really his hands and making promise. I hear you. I’ll wait for you.
Winly hooked an ankle around his, pressed the front of her thigh along the back of his leg, demonstrating with her fingers a sort of surgical precision that made him whimper. I won’t forget you, she’d assured him, once, her arms fitted awkwardly around shoulders that were broader than they were now. How could I? You’re right in front of me.
He moaned. “Al.” Al, she’d asked, once, on whim. If I kissed you... It had maybe been a cruel thing to say, cruel thing to do, and when she’d stood up on the bench to bump her mouth against what should’ve been approximately his lips of course it didn’t turn him back, and it didn’t fix everything, but it fixed some thing. Some thing. Some small thing. “Al. Hey...Hold on a sec.”
She pulled away, and he made a few confused sounds, up until she rolled him onto his back and swung a leg over to straddle his stomach-- then his eyes just went /wide/. Winly laughed. She didn’t think she was a bad sight herself, a little out of fashion perhaps, but when was the last time one of those city girls could lift a blowtorch? She was bare skin and wet hair, hanging over him with a grin. Al stammered.
“You’re—“
“Shower.” She sang, and kissed him. Boys could be so dumb under some circumstances. “Told you.” His hands came up along her arms. He touched her shoulder, touched her neck, brought his fingers across her cheek and over her eyelids and dropped them over her lips and chin, and she watched him keep his eyes fixed away modestly, until his fingers moved lower. Over her collar, along to the beginning curve of her right breast. Then, he looked up at her; a flick of mischief in the corner of his eye. The smile could’ve been devious if it wasn’t so happy.
Hey. She’d laughed nervously-- the first time, when she’d heard his heart hammering with her cheek leaned against the inside of his thigh, and he couldn’t stop trembling. Hey. I’m not going anywhere--
“...I know,” he said, sheepishly, and presently did something very nice with his thumb, while his other hand settled at the small of her back; and, presently, Winly sighed, pushed her hips back the required few inches that made him gasp.
The woman was due in around one to have her new joints installed, Al reminded Winly at twelve, when he nudged her awake, set a tray down next to her, and expertly dodged the screwdriver that had somehow found its way into her hand from one of the pillow cases. Winly sat up, grinding the heel of her palm against an eye, and noticed very cheerfully that the crick in her shoulder hadn’t. gone. away. Al handed her one of his shirts. She pulled it on, grumbling over the buttons. Lunch smelled pretty good, even if it looked suspiciously like breakfast.
“....and I cleaned up downstairs.”
“Nng.” she replied.
“Tired?” he asked, innocently enough.
Winly nearly choked on her toast. “Oh,” she said, once she was able to breathe again after a few helpful pounds on the back. She caught his head, and gave him a good hard ruffle. “Oh, shut up.”
Al /beamed/.
Also, Ansem is strangely hot. Even if that last fight with him goes on, and on, and on, and just DIE already? I Keyblade your Big Manly Bosom.
Right. Ficcage. Fullmetal Alchemist this time. Partly a response to the wankery that's been floating around, partly a response to the INSANE WINLY CUTENESS in ep 23, partly just general love....aaand partly a bad first attempt at sorta-pr0n. Moving on.
In retrospect Winly would have to admit the workbench wasn’t the best of places to curl up and sleep when there was a perfectly good bed down a few halls—but ‘down a few halls’ counted as ‘too far’ when one had pulled a near all-nighter finishing a special order and done a damn good job on it, too. Earned the rest, she thought but had to admit maybe, maybe the extra walk would’ve been worth it after all when she got up, cracked her back and winced at eight in the morning. There was sun on the walls, but she opted to rub her eyes and trust instinct to find the way. She shrugged out of her work clothes and went stumbling for a much needed shower.
The water felt good on her face, driving away the sleep-starved ache in her eyes and washing the sweat and grime off of her arms and out of her hair. These days she’d heard it was the trend of the city girls to cut their hair so short that it bounced around their cheeks, but Winly thought she could hold off on giving it a try. Long hair was maybe impractical in her line of work, took longer to wash too, but she always believed in doing things her way, and she liked the familiar tug of a ponytail, in the shower the wet strands plastered to her back.
Her latest patient had been quite amazed at the preference, bobbed hair and bracelets jingling, three necklaces swinging, the perfect picture of fashion with a limp. A woman from the north, who’d come in a year before for an artificial ankle. She danced, made her living on the stage, and had obviously been fairly successful, for the amount that she offered for the chance to stay up there, having followed the name Rockbell through word of an alchemist who’d passed her way. Winly liked her. She’d been easy and polite the first time and was easy and polite returning to request a tuning for a show she had coming up, it was starting to feel a little funny, and if it could be done soon, please? If it’s not too much trouble?
Winly had said sure. It was one of those exceptions she made from time to time. The woman was sure as hell a better regular than other people Winly could /name/, who skipped appointments. And slacked off on maintenance. And generally made royal pains in the asses of themselves. Who’d lose their bloody arm no matter how many times she’d screw it back on. So she’d agreed. Who needed eight hours of sleep anyway in this modern era? Not Winly Rockbell. She could run on three. Two, even, if she had a good shot of caffeine—she’d once argued that the existence of coffee proved the existence of God. The devout atheist sitting across from her at the time had looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or kill her.
Sleep. Sure, sleep was optional. Completely optional. Which was why the bed wasn’t calling her from through the door when she stepped out of the shower, toweling down her head and peering at her reflection with the lines under her eyes and tried to imagine what she’d look like if she /did/ go for a bob. No, it sure wasn’t. Nice as it might be to slide under the sheets—she tossed the towel without much care of where it landed and stalked out. To get clothes. No other reason. There was green in the window over the bed—it was spring, and bright enough she had to blink. The curtains were open. She shook her head.
Al never seemed to mind an excess of sunlight.
He was turned away from her, his shoulder a white rise under the sheets, the comforter a bunched mess at his waist and his feet sticking out, big and bare—a habit he’d never broken. He loved to stretch out and revel in every inch of the action like it was a guilty pleasure, loved to feel the daylight warm the skin of his cheek, which was turned towards window. He didn’t stir. Winly crept up, and leaned over, sliding a knee onto the mattress. She walked her fingers up his arm and gave him a pinch.
“Sleeping people don’t hold their breath.”
Al’s eyes were grey half-open in the morning,. Winly couldn’t see them at that angle, but she could imagine they were laughing, sleepily. “Ow,” he said. She pulled the sheet off his shoulder, and put her chin there instead.
“Anywaaay,” she yawned against his skin, letting herself drop down beside him. “M’done.”
“That’s good. You should rest.” He was probably right.
“…/mm/.” She said stubbornly. “Already did. Sore.” She slid her arm under his. “Not tired.”
“You sound tired.”
“Just took a shower.” She ran her palm along his side.
“Ah. I could tell. It’s cold.” It must’ve been especially easy with her wet hair soaking into his nightshirt; he said it like there couldn’t be anything better. “Rest, Winly,” he insisted, shifting as her fingers found the bare spot where the shirt had ridden up.
Al was so sensitive. Winly laughed quietly, wiggling closer. “No.” She touched his hip.
“No?”
“No.” She turned her face, kissed the back of his neck, where there was a faint mark that wasn’t so much a scar but a ghost of a bruise that hadn’t quite faded a long time ago. The heat rose there the moment her breath fanned it. Al made a funny noise at the back of his throat.
“/Winly/.”
She lifted her head. “Mm?”
“Um.” He swallowed. “Nothing.”
“Oh. Ok.” She pressed her nose into his hair, which was nice and soft and healthy smelling. “Not tired,” she persisted, in a clearer voice this time and, just in case that wasn’t clear enough, she thought the hand she slid over his hip and down front of his shorts might be more to the point.
Al came into full awareness with a sharp breath and a jump.
“/Oh/,” he said.
“Yeah.” Winly giggled. “That’s the idea.”
“I—I see--”
“Mm.” She closed her fingers around him. “Good morning, by the way.”
“...Morning,” he mumbled in a small voice, pushing a red cheek into his pillow. “Ah, sorry...I believe you now.”
“Thought so. Not too cold?”
“No.”
She squeezed. “Good.”
He was shaking a little. Over the blankets Winly could see it in his toes, and under the blankets she felt it moving up his spine and in his breath as he pressed his lips together and tried not to make too much noise. Which was silly, really; Al looked good in the morning light, his face round and earnest and flushed, with an edge of gold dancing in his darker hair, but his voice was the best part. It was more him than anything else. Older than anything else. Winly remembered, remembered taking hands that weren’t really his hands and making promise. I hear you. I’ll wait for you.
Winly hooked an ankle around his, pressed the front of her thigh along the back of his leg, demonstrating with her fingers a sort of surgical precision that made him whimper. I won’t forget you, she’d assured him, once, her arms fitted awkwardly around shoulders that were broader than they were now. How could I? You’re right in front of me.
He moaned. “Al.” Al, she’d asked, once, on whim. If I kissed you... It had maybe been a cruel thing to say, cruel thing to do, and when she’d stood up on the bench to bump her mouth against what should’ve been approximately his lips of course it didn’t turn him back, and it didn’t fix everything, but it fixed some thing. Some thing. Some small thing. “Al. Hey...Hold on a sec.”
She pulled away, and he made a few confused sounds, up until she rolled him onto his back and swung a leg over to straddle his stomach-- then his eyes just went /wide/. Winly laughed. She didn’t think she was a bad sight herself, a little out of fashion perhaps, but when was the last time one of those city girls could lift a blowtorch? She was bare skin and wet hair, hanging over him with a grin. Al stammered.
“You’re—“
“Shower.” She sang, and kissed him. Boys could be so dumb under some circumstances. “Told you.” His hands came up along her arms. He touched her shoulder, touched her neck, brought his fingers across her cheek and over her eyelids and dropped them over her lips and chin, and she watched him keep his eyes fixed away modestly, until his fingers moved lower. Over her collar, along to the beginning curve of her right breast. Then, he looked up at her; a flick of mischief in the corner of his eye. The smile could’ve been devious if it wasn’t so happy.
Hey. She’d laughed nervously-- the first time, when she’d heard his heart hammering with her cheek leaned against the inside of his thigh, and he couldn’t stop trembling. Hey. I’m not going anywhere--
“...I know,” he said, sheepishly, and presently did something very nice with his thumb, while his other hand settled at the small of her back; and, presently, Winly sighed, pushed her hips back the required few inches that made him gasp.
The woman was due in around one to have her new joints installed, Al reminded Winly at twelve, when he nudged her awake, set a tray down next to her, and expertly dodged the screwdriver that had somehow found its way into her hand from one of the pillow cases. Winly sat up, grinding the heel of her palm against an eye, and noticed very cheerfully that the crick in her shoulder hadn’t. gone. away. Al handed her one of his shirts. She pulled it on, grumbling over the buttons. Lunch smelled pretty good, even if it looked suspiciously like breakfast.
“....and I cleaned up downstairs.”
“Nng.” she replied.
“Tired?” he asked, innocently enough.
Winly nearly choked on her toast. “Oh,” she said, once she was able to breathe again after a few helpful pounds on the back. She caught his head, and gave him a good hard ruffle. “Oh, shut up.”
Al /beamed/.
