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Apr. 9th, 2004 08:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenRE: Naruto 212
...wow, series. I love you. o.o
Aaaaand, more Fullmetal Alchemist. Small shred of shame for this one. Possible wrongness not. my. fault. Winly/Al. Sort of companion piece to Some Small Thing. PG.
Winly glanced back at him over her shoulder; a speculative look, her mouth twisting around the bolt she was dangling from her lips as she tilted her head. That was when Alphonse Elric knew that he was probably in for it. She came up to him. He looked up. She put her hands on her hips, eyes traveling from his boots to his helm, and he learned exactly how hard it really was to edge away when one was a suit of armor slumped against a wall.
"Al," Winly said, after a moment of clear consideration. It was equally hard, Alphonse found, to shrink. "…You’re /filthy/."
That wasn’t entirely fair, he thought morosely. Given the circumstances—"…the roads have been a little dry lately…"--it was /summer/ after all, what else could be expected? Winly occupied a moment with running her finger along one of his spikes. She inspected the results with a disgusted huff and whirled around to stalk for the back, spitting out the bolt as she went. It missed its tin can by breath, rolled, and hit the leg of a nearby chair.
"Stupid," she was growling, bending over to rummage. Her curved back was beginning to show a little bit of the tan Alphonse had seen her working for in the noon breaks she took, laid out over the hillside on a blanket. "Stupid. He should /know/ better. Of course, what can you expect with /him/ geez. He’s such an idiot sometimes. Your brother’s an idiot, Al. Did you know that?"
He wasn’t entirely sure quite what his brother had done to incur her wrath. "Er." And he would never have the chance to ask, because that was when Winly rose with a towel over her shoulder and intent obvious in the hard set of her jaw and the finger she stabbed at the general direction of the door.
"Go," she commanded, and smiled. "It’s disgusting. We’re fixing that."
She marched him out of the house, carrying a couple of buckets fetched from the deeper recesses of the workshop. She brought him out along to the side of the house, where the hose was hooked up. Alphonse nearly expected to be doused without warning; there must’ve been some precedence--must have happened when they were kids-- but Winly only told him to stop there and turn around a few times, so she could get a better look. Easier said than done; it required a certain amount of grace that translated better into muscle and bone but he obeyed, stiff and awkward and strangely self conscious. Winly rubbed her chin and nodded, paced around him, then nodded again and instructed that he crouch, that they’d start from the top.
"I usually charge for this kind of thing," she added, fishing a container from of one of the buckets, unscrewing it, and then reaching almost absently to brush her knuckles against what counted for his cheek. "Buuut~ since it’s you." Her eyes lifted fondly. "I’ll do it for free."
"…thank you?"
She laughed, and pressed the towel into the jar. It was wax, Alphonse realized. Of course. "Not yet. Haven’t started." Winly draped it over the point of his helm, he couldn’t help but lift it in a clumsy, surprised motion. She blinked. "…and don’t act so /nervous/, Al. It’s part of my /job/. Besides…"
She rested her hand over the cloth, her wrist flexing; a circular motion, it registered as a slow, experimental pressure. Pushing his gaze down and making a squeaking noise against his surface.
"…think you’ll like this," she promised, taking both ends of the towel; getting to work on him. Top to bottom, like she’d said, taking extra care on the helm—which took time. There were a lot of nooks to get into. A lot of places looking tarnished, bits where only an index finger would do, rubbing swift and hard, Winly worked over these spots with determination and a little bit of incredulity. No, Alphonse had to insist, Brother hadn’t been playing football with his head, please don’t kill him. There’d only been that one time anyway, last month when they’d had to fight a—never mind. His particular form of a flinch was vocal.
She moved on to his shoulders and it was faster from there, requiring less of her wrist and more of the rest of her arms, Alphonse watched them move—it really /was/ Winly’s element, and roll of her shoulders seemed comfortable to her. He thought he could recall a time when they were softer and rounder, without the years of experience building the sharper lines beneath the skin. He thought it might feel good, and when she got to his elbows it almost did; it wasn’t too hard to imagine the rasp of cloth and wax against him, the hiss of her hair on his torso, along with the weight that was definitely there. For a moment Alphonse was certain that he /must/ have blushing, and any minute, she’d look up and tell him that he was fogging up, and then he’d just have to fall through the earth—it wasn’t actually a possibility, but that didn’t stop him from picturing it as one. Winly would laugh.
The last time, he explained (when she asked him, after telling him to stand up so she could get at his legs), hadn’t really been that long ago. No wax, just his brother’s balled up coat, his brother’s palms glowing as they took dents out of the upper part of his arm, near where the emblem was. Alphonse didn’t explain that they’d been from machine gun fire strong enough to leave a riddled pattern in his surface. Marks his brother had shown teeth at and insisted on fixing immediately, head low and hair in his eyes as he did so.
"How does it feel when he does that?" Winly was propped a little against him, looking up. "I mean, er, do you…"
"…tingly, maybe?" Alphonse had to fish for a good reference. "…like water? It’s….different."
"So you can feel it?"
"A little, I think."
"And this?" She sounded uncertain, suddenly, with her fingers tracing one of his knee spikes.
"No." He was honest. She had to have expected as much from an answer, because she nodded and her shoulders didn’t fall so much as they did dip, very slightly. "But I can imagine…?" Oh no, he thought. That just sounded /silly/.
Winly’s index finger paused on the point of the spike at the zenith of the joint’s curve. She tossed her hair back over her shoulders, lifting the towel. "So can I. So what. It’s fun, isn’t it?"
"Yes," he agreed, and then, a vocal shade of bright red, added: "…I like it."
They were done by the time Pinako came out to enlist them for dinner duty, to which they applied themselves with an odd shared contrition, like they’d been caught sneaking off to that spot by the lake Winly said all the boys and girls they’d grown up with were going these days. Dinner was done by the time the sun was setting outside when Edward stumbled downstairs, roused from his nap, sniffing at the air with Den on his heels. Alphonse was setting the table. Taking care with it--he’d accidentally smashed plates before. His brother gave him a long, groggy look.
"…uh."
Alphonse set himself upright, shuffled a little more into the light streaming through the window. "Yes, brother?"
His brother looked at him. Looked at Winly, who was on her toes by the sink, trying not to look too terribly pleased with herself while keeping her hair from dripping into the running faucet. Both of his eyebrows shot up, he shook his head.
"… Nevermind." He paced past them, sitting down. Den immediately took it as permission to shove his head into his lap, and he looked exasperated but not too annoyed. "You look good."
"Thank you," Alphonse said, glowing brilliantly, at the same time Winly, grinning, said: "Gee. Thanks, Ed."
Edward rolled his eyes, put in a request for a seven-in-the-evening-and-I-don’t-care-just-give cup of coffee, scratched the dog behind the ears, and declared them all clinically insane.
Sometimes I find myself wanting to write long, complicated Roy/Ed fic, involving Greek mythology and probably pretension up the ass, but I don't think it would be anything that hasn't already been done on those two, and done infinately better.
Maybe some Baby Pyro (Chira knows what I am talking about). Funny thing about FMA, I either want to do rampant speculation on its far, far future. (Fuhrer!Roy! Al as a teacher! Ed living a ridiculously long life--just because he probably doesn't expect to make it past twenty himself and it would be a delicious bit of irony..) Or rampant speculation about its far far past. Bad backstory fic, ahoy~
P.S.
Tidus, you are the dorkiest dork to have ever dorked and I <3 you you dumb spazz. That's all I have to say.
...wow, series. I love you. o.o
Aaaaand, more Fullmetal Alchemist. Small shred of shame for this one. Possible wrongness not. my. fault. Winly/Al. Sort of companion piece to Some Small Thing. PG.
Winly glanced back at him over her shoulder; a speculative look, her mouth twisting around the bolt she was dangling from her lips as she tilted her head. That was when Alphonse Elric knew that he was probably in for it. She came up to him. He looked up. She put her hands on her hips, eyes traveling from his boots to his helm, and he learned exactly how hard it really was to edge away when one was a suit of armor slumped against a wall.
"Al," Winly said, after a moment of clear consideration. It was equally hard, Alphonse found, to shrink. "…You’re /filthy/."
That wasn’t entirely fair, he thought morosely. Given the circumstances—"…the roads have been a little dry lately…"--it was /summer/ after all, what else could be expected? Winly occupied a moment with running her finger along one of his spikes. She inspected the results with a disgusted huff and whirled around to stalk for the back, spitting out the bolt as she went. It missed its tin can by breath, rolled, and hit the leg of a nearby chair.
"Stupid," she was growling, bending over to rummage. Her curved back was beginning to show a little bit of the tan Alphonse had seen her working for in the noon breaks she took, laid out over the hillside on a blanket. "Stupid. He should /know/ better. Of course, what can you expect with /him/ geez. He’s such an idiot sometimes. Your brother’s an idiot, Al. Did you know that?"
He wasn’t entirely sure quite what his brother had done to incur her wrath. "Er." And he would never have the chance to ask, because that was when Winly rose with a towel over her shoulder and intent obvious in the hard set of her jaw and the finger she stabbed at the general direction of the door.
"Go," she commanded, and smiled. "It’s disgusting. We’re fixing that."
She marched him out of the house, carrying a couple of buckets fetched from the deeper recesses of the workshop. She brought him out along to the side of the house, where the hose was hooked up. Alphonse nearly expected to be doused without warning; there must’ve been some precedence--must have happened when they were kids-- but Winly only told him to stop there and turn around a few times, so she could get a better look. Easier said than done; it required a certain amount of grace that translated better into muscle and bone but he obeyed, stiff and awkward and strangely self conscious. Winly rubbed her chin and nodded, paced around him, then nodded again and instructed that he crouch, that they’d start from the top.
"I usually charge for this kind of thing," she added, fishing a container from of one of the buckets, unscrewing it, and then reaching almost absently to brush her knuckles against what counted for his cheek. "Buuut~ since it’s you." Her eyes lifted fondly. "I’ll do it for free."
"…thank you?"
She laughed, and pressed the towel into the jar. It was wax, Alphonse realized. Of course. "Not yet. Haven’t started." Winly draped it over the point of his helm, he couldn’t help but lift it in a clumsy, surprised motion. She blinked. "…and don’t act so /nervous/, Al. It’s part of my /job/. Besides…"
She rested her hand over the cloth, her wrist flexing; a circular motion, it registered as a slow, experimental pressure. Pushing his gaze down and making a squeaking noise against his surface.
"…think you’ll like this," she promised, taking both ends of the towel; getting to work on him. Top to bottom, like she’d said, taking extra care on the helm—which took time. There were a lot of nooks to get into. A lot of places looking tarnished, bits where only an index finger would do, rubbing swift and hard, Winly worked over these spots with determination and a little bit of incredulity. No, Alphonse had to insist, Brother hadn’t been playing football with his head, please don’t kill him. There’d only been that one time anyway, last month when they’d had to fight a—never mind. His particular form of a flinch was vocal.
She moved on to his shoulders and it was faster from there, requiring less of her wrist and more of the rest of her arms, Alphonse watched them move—it really /was/ Winly’s element, and roll of her shoulders seemed comfortable to her. He thought he could recall a time when they were softer and rounder, without the years of experience building the sharper lines beneath the skin. He thought it might feel good, and when she got to his elbows it almost did; it wasn’t too hard to imagine the rasp of cloth and wax against him, the hiss of her hair on his torso, along with the weight that was definitely there. For a moment Alphonse was certain that he /must/ have blushing, and any minute, she’d look up and tell him that he was fogging up, and then he’d just have to fall through the earth—it wasn’t actually a possibility, but that didn’t stop him from picturing it as one. Winly would laugh.
The last time, he explained (when she asked him, after telling him to stand up so she could get at his legs), hadn’t really been that long ago. No wax, just his brother’s balled up coat, his brother’s palms glowing as they took dents out of the upper part of his arm, near where the emblem was. Alphonse didn’t explain that they’d been from machine gun fire strong enough to leave a riddled pattern in his surface. Marks his brother had shown teeth at and insisted on fixing immediately, head low and hair in his eyes as he did so.
"How does it feel when he does that?" Winly was propped a little against him, looking up. "I mean, er, do you…"
"…tingly, maybe?" Alphonse had to fish for a good reference. "…like water? It’s….different."
"So you can feel it?"
"A little, I think."
"And this?" She sounded uncertain, suddenly, with her fingers tracing one of his knee spikes.
"No." He was honest. She had to have expected as much from an answer, because she nodded and her shoulders didn’t fall so much as they did dip, very slightly. "But I can imagine…?" Oh no, he thought. That just sounded /silly/.
Winly’s index finger paused on the point of the spike at the zenith of the joint’s curve. She tossed her hair back over her shoulders, lifting the towel. "So can I. So what. It’s fun, isn’t it?"
"Yes," he agreed, and then, a vocal shade of bright red, added: "…I like it."
They were done by the time Pinako came out to enlist them for dinner duty, to which they applied themselves with an odd shared contrition, like they’d been caught sneaking off to that spot by the lake Winly said all the boys and girls they’d grown up with were going these days. Dinner was done by the time the sun was setting outside when Edward stumbled downstairs, roused from his nap, sniffing at the air with Den on his heels. Alphonse was setting the table. Taking care with it--he’d accidentally smashed plates before. His brother gave him a long, groggy look.
"…uh."
Alphonse set himself upright, shuffled a little more into the light streaming through the window. "Yes, brother?"
His brother looked at him. Looked at Winly, who was on her toes by the sink, trying not to look too terribly pleased with herself while keeping her hair from dripping into the running faucet. Both of his eyebrows shot up, he shook his head.
"… Nevermind." He paced past them, sitting down. Den immediately took it as permission to shove his head into his lap, and he looked exasperated but not too annoyed. "You look good."
"Thank you," Alphonse said, glowing brilliantly, at the same time Winly, grinning, said: "Gee. Thanks, Ed."
Edward rolled his eyes, put in a request for a seven-in-the-evening-and-I-don’t-care-just-give cup of coffee, scratched the dog behind the ears, and declared them all clinically insane.
Sometimes I find myself wanting to write long, complicated Roy/Ed fic, involving Greek mythology and probably pretension up the ass, but I don't think it would be anything that hasn't already been done on those two, and done infinately better.
Maybe some Baby Pyro (Chira knows what I am talking about). Funny thing about FMA, I either want to do rampant speculation on its far, far future. (Fuhrer!Roy! Al as a teacher! Ed living a ridiculously long life--just because he probably doesn't expect to make it past twenty himself and it would be a delicious bit of irony..) Or rampant speculation about its far far past. Bad backstory fic, ahoy~
P.S.
Tidus, you are the dorkiest dork to have ever dorked and I <3 you you dumb spazz. That's all I have to say.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-09 06:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-09 07:18 pm (UTC)OMG THE SAVIOR IS HERE. referring to Gaara, ho ho, yes.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-11 02:59 pm (UTC)