![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blue_soaringI blame the evil twin for every last bit of fluff here, too. And the weather. It's still freakin' snowing.
I still fail on feedback type things. ._. Between school and work and actually writing, about all I have time for is to read comments, bask in the glow, and then rush off to the next crisis. But the glow is the important part, right? Right? Right?
In Good Company
FMA. Hughes/Roy. G. 300 words.
Hughes and Roy and too much snow.
In Good Company
Hughes grabs the sill, straining up on his toes to peer into the kitchen. His breath softens the caked ice enough to pick at it with his mitten.
"She's making hot chocolate," he whispers. "I bet that's hot chocolate."
Roy grunts and flings another chunk of wet snow on top of the towering bank. "You're not getting one toe over that threshold until you start shovelling," he snaps back, the bite of it muffled by the thick scarf covering his mouth. "Why couldn't you have rented."
Hughes taps the glass, wiggling his fingers as if Gracia's seen him. "Don't you wish you had a wife like mine?" he asks, making kissy noises at the frost.
Roy jams his shovel into the drift. The snowball hits Hughes square in the back of the head. Smiling tightly, Roy says, "Shovel."
"That was a declaration of war, Mustang," Hughes says. "War."
Roy ducks the return fire, a jab at Hughes's laughable aim dying in an undignified yelp as he ends up flat on his back with an armful of Hughes. After that, it's a good bit of cursing, several death threats, and eventually, a triumphant Hughes sitting on his stomach.
"Mercy," Roy wheezes, fist beating weakly at the snow. "Oxygen. Can't breathe... is that a tummy you're developing there, Maes?"
"Gracia said if you were going to let yourself go in your old age, you might as well have company," Hughes says, and licks at a bit of snow melting on the tip of Roy's nose.
"She did not," Roy says. "I am not. You're older than I am!" Hughes keeps grinning at him as he blinks away the tiny flakes of snow caught in his eyelashes. "I'm telling your wife on you."
Hughes's answer is a fistful of snow and a kiss.
*
End
Things Fade
FF7. Cid/Vincent. R. 300 words.
He supposes that's what makes him so hungry for it.
Things Fade
Cid's gloves are smeared with grease. The cigarette caught on his lip bounces as he mutters curses, dropping ashes in a flurry onto his stained coveralls. There's a creak, a long protesting groan, and the seized gears finally give.
Perched on the catwalk, Vincent watches the young crewmembers whoop and clap their captain on the back. Cid's grin is wide, satisfied and proud. He drops his gloves to the plating and plucks a fresh cigarette from behind his ear, lighting it with a smooth, practiced flick.
The entire time, Vincent watches the play of his fingers, the shifting tendon beneath sun-browned skin. Cid's nails are blunt, kept trimmed with a pocketknife. His fingers are thick, rough. Clean, but with years of grime ground so deeply it's become a part of his skin.
The memory of those hands fisted in his hair, gripping his hips with the intent to bruise, rises up strong. The marks have already faded, the ache as well, neither lasting on this new body. He supposes that's what makes him so hungry for it, craving the sweet ache of morning-after and seeking Cid out night after night to find it.
After the first time, when long weeks had stretched between, Cid had grown impatient. It had started that way, with Vincent fascinated by Cid's blunt crudity, vainly searching for a reason to refuse the tight, gripping pleasure of someone else's hand on his cock.
He had no good reason, Cid had pointed out, just a lot of half-assed excuses and a raging need to get off. He'd woke the following morning with Cid's fingers still tangled in his hair and the uncomfortable itch of come dried thick between his legs.
Still, he'd lain there for the half hour or more it took for Cid to stop snoring.
*
End
I still fail on feedback type things. ._. Between school and work and actually writing, about all I have time for is to read comments, bask in the glow, and then rush off to the next crisis. But the glow is the important part, right? Right? Right?
In Good Company
FMA. Hughes/Roy. G. 300 words.
Hughes and Roy and too much snow.
Hughes grabs the sill, straining up on his toes to peer into the kitchen. His breath softens the caked ice enough to pick at it with his mitten.
"She's making hot chocolate," he whispers. "I bet that's hot chocolate."
Roy grunts and flings another chunk of wet snow on top of the towering bank. "You're not getting one toe over that threshold until you start shovelling," he snaps back, the bite of it muffled by the thick scarf covering his mouth. "Why couldn't you have rented."
Hughes taps the glass, wiggling his fingers as if Gracia's seen him. "Don't you wish you had a wife like mine?" he asks, making kissy noises at the frost.
Roy jams his shovel into the drift. The snowball hits Hughes square in the back of the head. Smiling tightly, Roy says, "Shovel."
"That was a declaration of war, Mustang," Hughes says. "War."
Roy ducks the return fire, a jab at Hughes's laughable aim dying in an undignified yelp as he ends up flat on his back with an armful of Hughes. After that, it's a good bit of cursing, several death threats, and eventually, a triumphant Hughes sitting on his stomach.
"Mercy," Roy wheezes, fist beating weakly at the snow. "Oxygen. Can't breathe... is that a tummy you're developing there, Maes?"
"Gracia said if you were going to let yourself go in your old age, you might as well have company," Hughes says, and licks at a bit of snow melting on the tip of Roy's nose.
"She did not," Roy says. "I am not. You're older than I am!" Hughes keeps grinning at him as he blinks away the tiny flakes of snow caught in his eyelashes. "I'm telling your wife on you."
Hughes's answer is a fistful of snow and a kiss.
End
Things Fade
FF7. Cid/Vincent. R. 300 words.
He supposes that's what makes him so hungry for it.
Cid's gloves are smeared with grease. The cigarette caught on his lip bounces as he mutters curses, dropping ashes in a flurry onto his stained coveralls. There's a creak, a long protesting groan, and the seized gears finally give.
Perched on the catwalk, Vincent watches the young crewmembers whoop and clap their captain on the back. Cid's grin is wide, satisfied and proud. He drops his gloves to the plating and plucks a fresh cigarette from behind his ear, lighting it with a smooth, practiced flick.
The entire time, Vincent watches the play of his fingers, the shifting tendon beneath sun-browned skin. Cid's nails are blunt, kept trimmed with a pocketknife. His fingers are thick, rough. Clean, but with years of grime ground so deeply it's become a part of his skin.
The memory of those hands fisted in his hair, gripping his hips with the intent to bruise, rises up strong. The marks have already faded, the ache as well, neither lasting on this new body. He supposes that's what makes him so hungry for it, craving the sweet ache of morning-after and seeking Cid out night after night to find it.
After the first time, when long weeks had stretched between, Cid had grown impatient. It had started that way, with Vincent fascinated by Cid's blunt crudity, vainly searching for a reason to refuse the tight, gripping pleasure of someone else's hand on his cock.
He had no good reason, Cid had pointed out, just a lot of half-assed excuses and a raging need to get off. He'd woke the following morning with Cid's fingers still tangled in his hair and the uncomfortable itch of come dried thick between his legs.
Still, he'd lain there for the half hour or more it took for Cid to stop snoring.
End
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-03-13 12:10 am (UTC)love the second one very much. I adore Cid/Vincent, and that was wonderful :)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-13 02:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-13 03:48 am (UTC)*cuddles in the woobie fic* Remind me to type up and give you your rufus/reno and reno/rude drabbles.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-13 07:57 pm (UTC)Look, look, I begin to reply to comments again. Yay for life fucking off!
no subject
Date: 2006-03-13 07:58 pm (UTC)...already blamed her. But! She can always be blamed again! ^_^ Thankie much!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-14 07:01 am (UTC)