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Full Metal Alchemist drabble.
Unrepentant schmoop. I regret nothing.
Sometimes they do things. When they see each other, which isn’t as often as they like sometimes but it’s all right. Sometimes she walks next to him. Sometimes they sit together on a park bench, her with her legs stretched out and arms behind her head; him hunched cautiously on the edge. Sometimes he carries her on a raised arm. Sometimes she combs her fingers through his plume and sometimes she leans over to rest against him, face close to his helm, murmuring things to him like there was an ear crooked behind it to hear. He likes that. Sometimes it’s lazy conversation. Sometimes it’s something like a secret, her fitted close to his cold curves, whispering all the things she’d like do to him in that ‘when’ he hopes for in one breath and then in the next whispering all the things she loves to do with him in that ‘now’ that he has. He likes that, too. Sometimes he buys her things with the coins he keeps in a little holster at his side that looks more like it should (and sometimes does) hold small weapons. Ice cream, if it looks hot; a scarf once, on a windy day when he saw her shivering, for which she thanked him. Sometimes they walk back to the steps the state building to meet his brother after a briefing or a debriefing, hand in gauntlet because, she sometimes says, that’s what people like them are supposed to do.
Sometimes --which is actually not sometimes so much as it is every day—he is fairly certain he is in love.
Sometimes they do things. When they see each other, which isn’t as often as they like sometimes but it’s all right. Sometimes she walks next to him. Sometimes they sit together on a park bench, her with her legs stretched out and arms behind her head; him hunched cautiously on the edge. Sometimes he carries her on a raised arm. Sometimes she combs her fingers through his plume and sometimes she leans over to rest against him, face close to his helm, murmuring things to him like there was an ear crooked behind it to hear. He likes that. Sometimes it’s lazy conversation. Sometimes it’s something like a secret, her fitted close to his cold curves, whispering all the things she’d like do to him in that ‘when’ he hopes for in one breath and then in the next whispering all the things she loves to do with him in that ‘now’ that he has. He likes that, too. Sometimes he buys her things with the coins he keeps in a little holster at his side that looks more like it should (and sometimes does) hold small weapons. Ice cream, if it looks hot; a scarf once, on a windy day when he saw her shivering, for which she thanked him. Sometimes they walk back to the steps the state building to meet his brother after a briefing or a debriefing, hand in gauntlet because, she sometimes says, that’s what people like them are supposed to do.
Sometimes --which is actually not sometimes so much as it is every day—he is fairly certain he is in love.
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"whispering all the things she’d like do to him in that ‘when’ he hopes for in one breath" - there's something so forbiddenly sexy about that image.
AaronSirk
(Anonymous) 2004-03-29 01:47 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
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aaaaw..
(Anonymous) 2007-03-16 12:19 am (UTC)(link)no subject
I love it!