ext_9872 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
zauberer-sirin.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
31_days2005-08-17 01:20 am
zauberer-sirin.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-08-17 01:20 am
[Aug. 16th] [Fullmetal Alchemist] home, country, continent
Title: home, country, continent
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Day/Theme: August 16th / Kingdom of the mad
Character/Pairing: Roy/Hawkeye
Rating: PG-13 for adult situations
"Do you know what madmen, poets and lovers have in common?"
You ask, licking the last drop of after-sex sweat off her neck, that precise spot where Riza is ticklish and you feel the muscles of her stomach vibrating under you. She makes a low noise that could be the crossing point between a moan and an exclamation mark and it always quickens your pulse that you can still enchant her with words, fuel her curiosity and tell her stories that keep her awake, that after all you are still the books and the academies and the world to her.
Your point, exactly.
"They inhabit countries that only they can see, they defy traditional cartography and draw their own frontiers. Madmen dream up a reality that erases the reality around them; to poets words are islands, the sound of a vowel is this valley and here a verb builds a rocky montain. And lovers," you look into her eyes when you say this, they laugh at you but she lifts a leg against your hips so you can touch her knee. "Well, lovers are the craziest of all, for they believe in a country of two, a planet the size of this bed."
Big words, you still use them. You still want to impress her. There is no day that passes without you trying to become worthy of her, and trying to make her see that
"And what are we?"
"Maybe some combination of the three. Maybe they are just three different words for the same thing."
She makes you some kind of poet, that´s for sure: though a poet that writes in a language no one could understand, not even you. She makes you a madman, that´s been proved. You love when she calls you her lover, you hope to handle this conversation so you can hear it again.
Her lover. You think about Ishval and how you used to look at her in the middle of a sandstorm and think: i pray you never love me as much as i love you.
You see your watch on her bedtable. You think about Ishval and how once you counted sixty seconds with kisses and you called it a perfect minute (you still believed in perfection, you had found it in her); Riza would tell you that you tend to over-romantizise your time in Ishval, that it was so hard to shower that you were always dirty, and everybody had bad breath and she was ugly and her hair was short and she looked like a tomboy.
(you would argue that you loved her dirty clothes, and the feeling of urgence when you kissed her, and loved her tomboy look and her short hair, running your fingers through it, how it tickled when you kissed the back of her neck -she would tell you that you are lame and sappy but you would smile, because you know the truth, she is a romantic too)
"Do you believe that?"
You comb her hair with your fingers, taking a breath to choose the words.
"I believe that if somebody took my passport it would say I belong to you, there in clear print letter; and if they asked my nationality I´d reply I have none, but here between your legs."
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Day/Theme: August 16th / Kingdom of the mad
Character/Pairing: Roy/Hawkeye
Rating: PG-13 for adult situations
"Do you know what madmen, poets and lovers have in common?"
You ask, licking the last drop of after-sex sweat off her neck, that precise spot where Riza is ticklish and you feel the muscles of her stomach vibrating under you. She makes a low noise that could be the crossing point between a moan and an exclamation mark and it always quickens your pulse that you can still enchant her with words, fuel her curiosity and tell her stories that keep her awake, that after all you are still the books and the academies and the world to her.
Your point, exactly.
"They inhabit countries that only they can see, they defy traditional cartography and draw their own frontiers. Madmen dream up a reality that erases the reality around them; to poets words are islands, the sound of a vowel is this valley and here a verb builds a rocky montain. And lovers," you look into her eyes when you say this, they laugh at you but she lifts a leg against your hips so you can touch her knee. "Well, lovers are the craziest of all, for they believe in a country of two, a planet the size of this bed."
Big words, you still use them. You still want to impress her. There is no day that passes without you trying to become worthy of her, and trying to make her see that
"And what are we?"
"Maybe some combination of the three. Maybe they are just three different words for the same thing."
She makes you some kind of poet, that´s for sure: though a poet that writes in a language no one could understand, not even you. She makes you a madman, that´s been proved. You love when she calls you her lover, you hope to handle this conversation so you can hear it again.
Her lover. You think about Ishval and how you used to look at her in the middle of a sandstorm and think: i pray you never love me as much as i love you.
You see your watch on her bedtable. You think about Ishval and how once you counted sixty seconds with kisses and you called it a perfect minute (you still believed in perfection, you had found it in her); Riza would tell you that you tend to over-romantizise your time in Ishval, that it was so hard to shower that you were always dirty, and everybody had bad breath and she was ugly and her hair was short and she looked like a tomboy.
(you would argue that you loved her dirty clothes, and the feeling of urgence when you kissed her, and loved her tomboy look and her short hair, running your fingers through it, how it tickled when you kissed the back of her neck -she would tell you that you are lame and sappy but you would smile, because you know the truth, she is a romantic too)
"Do you believe that?"
You comb her hair with your fingers, taking a breath to choose the words.
"I believe that if somebody took my passport it would say I belong to you, there in clear print letter; and if they asked my nationality I´d reply I have none, but here between your legs."