I found my Kim!muse! Whoo-hoo!
May. 10th, 2005 04:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lykomancerTitle: Le Petit Mort
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Kimbley/Greed
Rating: PG
Warnings: None!
Spoilers: Not really any.
Notes: I really like the way this came out, but of course, it's also 5 am, so... Have to see in teh morning if I still agree with that.
Dedication: This is forchauni, absolut_artemis, and my ferret, Kimbley, all of whom inspired this weird thing in some way.
Kimbley was indifferent to most things, really, or at least, he gave the impression of a man who didn't care much about most things one way or the other the majority of the time-- the majority of time in which he was not blowing things up, that is to say...which was too often for the chimeras' comfort and not often enough for either Greed nor Kimbley's own taste.
Greed enjoyed the explosions almost as much as their perpetrator did, enjoyed watching his pet alchemist's fine work over the tops of his round sunglasses, his feline eyes glittering with hungry amusement. He didn't say one word about the muted bangs that wasn't guttural growled praise slipping out over the jagged points of his lion's teeth.
It didn't matter if Kimbley blew up something of Greed's, which was usually the case, as the Sin was sure that everything and everyone belonged to him in one way or another, sooner or later. Greed was, well, greedy; he collected things and people he didn't actually need with the fervor of an obsessive-compulsive hoarding animal preparing for winter, not really caring about his treasures, just simply and irrationally wanting to have everything available to him. He liked having; he was a collector.
It didn't matter if Kimbley blew up something of Greed's, as his desire for everything and everyone meant subversively that anything the alchemist blew to high hell was his: possession by association. Kimbley was his, ergo, anything that the Crimson Alchemist touched-- i.e. exploded-- was also his, albeit given to Kimbley like an unspoken gift.
Go on, go ahead. You know you want to. I don't mind. For now, what's mine is yours, because your pleasure is mine, too, and this is a good trade: this bottle of vodka, this furniture, this useless whore-- any of those things and then some--for your delight.
So go ahead.
__
Unspoken.
Kimbley was a man of few words, and Greed was amused by that, too. There was something innately pleasurable about the company of someone who wasn't in love with the sound of his own empty, endless chatter. Someone who knew that he didn't have to waste time speaking; his silence was almost predatory, hair-prickling. A man who knew that he was substance, not just style, and that his actions were much louder than his words.
In the Crimson Alchemist's case, this latter was often literally true. Especially when he was feeling...volatile.
The chimera were all either indifferent to him, or else avoided him, their atavistic senses sensitive to the wild, dangerous aura the alchemist had, and so they didn't usually even look at him as they came in and out of The Devil's Nest, ignoring the sleek form draped elegantly over the bar, untouched drink sitting in front of him. They rarely said anything to Kimbley, and he rarely said anything to them.
However, when all the others had left, gone off to their own private missions or beds or wanderings, when the overhead lights had been turned off, leaving only a single lamp glowing behind the bar, sometimes then the alchemist would begin to speak, his naturally ironic tone steady and matter-of-fact as he told of some of the warcrimes that had gotten him thrown into the 5th Laboratory prison in exquisite, eloquent detail. His words hung in the dimly-lit room like tangible promises; Greed could almost see them, dangling, like cherries, just barely within his reach.
Kimbley sat against the dark polished surface of the bar, speaking his soliloquies to the rows of bottles; Greed lounged back into the depths of the couch, his long legs kicked up on the low table, and he often found himself stretching his ouroboros-marked hand up into the fruitful air as the alchemist reminisced.
All that. Right there. Touchably close. All that vicious intelligence and talent, all that power and the amorality to wield it indiscriminately against anyone-- man, woman, child; ally or enemy-- and it was all just sitting at the bar, not even a full ten feet away!
If I wanted...
__
Boundaries.
Kimbley really was his favorite possession--his pet, in a way, though Greed was smart enough never to voice this particular opinion of the Crimson Alchemist aloud-- but he was still...feral. It was like keeping a full-blooded wolf in the house; you could learn to live with it, but it was never tame. No matter how long a wolf was kept in captivity, it was always a wild animal, watching the world through inhuman yellow eyes.
There was Gotterdammerung in Kimbley's gaze; here was a creature whose appetite for destruction would have him rejoice at the dusk of the gods themselves-- rejoice and participate, laughing madly and devouring everything in his path.
Not a house pet, this human Fenris, but that was what made Greed really purr. The danger, the thrill, the threat. The challenge. The sheer ecstasy of being able to run his broad hands over his deadly pet in hungry, possessive strokes, watching those wolf-eyes spark and glow like the embers of a dying sun, promising complete annihilation.
And anyone else would have been annihilated. Greed was simply gleeful, much to Kimbley's very apparent irritation. This usually resulted in many more explosions-- as many as was necessary to make the Sin stop grinning. This sometimes took more than an hour. Greed considered it time well spent.
Kimbley didn't seem to like being touched, unless he was the one who initiated the contact, usually in the form of a dispassionate laying-on of hands that didn't heal-- unless one counted death as the ultimate cure.
But when the Crimson Alchemist actually did touch him, sliding a tattooed hand under his vest and along his ribs, Greed had to wonder if for once he was the one who was owned.
The Sin closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
*pant, pant*
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Kimbley/Greed
Rating: PG
Warnings: None!
Spoilers: Not really any.
Notes: I really like the way this came out, but of course, it's also 5 am, so... Have to see in teh morning if I still agree with that.
Dedication: This is for
chauni, absolut_artemis, and my ferret, Kimbley, all of whom inspired this weird thing in some way. Kimbley was indifferent to most things, really, or at least, he gave the impression of a man who didn't care much about most things one way or the other the majority of the time-- the majority of time in which he was not blowing things up, that is to say...which was too often for the chimeras' comfort and not often enough for either Greed nor Kimbley's own taste.
Greed enjoyed the explosions almost as much as their perpetrator did, enjoyed watching his pet alchemist's fine work over the tops of his round sunglasses, his feline eyes glittering with hungry amusement. He didn't say one word about the muted bangs that wasn't guttural growled praise slipping out over the jagged points of his lion's teeth.
It didn't matter if Kimbley blew up something of Greed's, which was usually the case, as the Sin was sure that everything and everyone belonged to him in one way or another, sooner or later. Greed was, well, greedy; he collected things and people he didn't actually need with the fervor of an obsessive-compulsive hoarding animal preparing for winter, not really caring about his treasures, just simply and irrationally wanting to have everything available to him. He liked having; he was a collector.
It didn't matter if Kimbley blew up something of Greed's, as his desire for everything and everyone meant subversively that anything the alchemist blew to high hell was his: possession by association. Kimbley was his, ergo, anything that the Crimson Alchemist touched-- i.e. exploded-- was also his, albeit given to Kimbley like an unspoken gift.
Go on, go ahead. You know you want to. I don't mind. For now, what's mine is yours, because your pleasure is mine, too, and this is a good trade: this bottle of vodka, this furniture, this useless whore-- any of those things and then some--for your delight.
So go ahead.
__
Unspoken.
Kimbley was a man of few words, and Greed was amused by that, too. There was something innately pleasurable about the company of someone who wasn't in love with the sound of his own empty, endless chatter. Someone who knew that he didn't have to waste time speaking; his silence was almost predatory, hair-prickling. A man who knew that he was substance, not just style, and that his actions were much louder than his words.
In the Crimson Alchemist's case, this latter was often literally true. Especially when he was feeling...volatile.
The chimera were all either indifferent to him, or else avoided him, their atavistic senses sensitive to the wild, dangerous aura the alchemist had, and so they didn't usually even look at him as they came in and out of The Devil's Nest, ignoring the sleek form draped elegantly over the bar, untouched drink sitting in front of him. They rarely said anything to Kimbley, and he rarely said anything to them.
However, when all the others had left, gone off to their own private missions or beds or wanderings, when the overhead lights had been turned off, leaving only a single lamp glowing behind the bar, sometimes then the alchemist would begin to speak, his naturally ironic tone steady and matter-of-fact as he told of some of the warcrimes that had gotten him thrown into the 5th Laboratory prison in exquisite, eloquent detail. His words hung in the dimly-lit room like tangible promises; Greed could almost see them, dangling, like cherries, just barely within his reach.
Kimbley sat against the dark polished surface of the bar, speaking his soliloquies to the rows of bottles; Greed lounged back into the depths of the couch, his long legs kicked up on the low table, and he often found himself stretching his ouroboros-marked hand up into the fruitful air as the alchemist reminisced.
All that. Right there. Touchably close. All that vicious intelligence and talent, all that power and the amorality to wield it indiscriminately against anyone-- man, woman, child; ally or enemy-- and it was all just sitting at the bar, not even a full ten feet away!
If I wanted...
__
Boundaries.
Kimbley really was his favorite possession--his pet, in a way, though Greed was smart enough never to voice this particular opinion of the Crimson Alchemist aloud-- but he was still...feral. It was like keeping a full-blooded wolf in the house; you could learn to live with it, but it was never tame. No matter how long a wolf was kept in captivity, it was always a wild animal, watching the world through inhuman yellow eyes.
There was Gotterdammerung in Kimbley's gaze; here was a creature whose appetite for destruction would have him rejoice at the dusk of the gods themselves-- rejoice and participate, laughing madly and devouring everything in his path.
Not a house pet, this human Fenris, but that was what made Greed really purr. The danger, the thrill, the threat. The challenge. The sheer ecstasy of being able to run his broad hands over his deadly pet in hungry, possessive strokes, watching those wolf-eyes spark and glow like the embers of a dying sun, promising complete annihilation.
And anyone else would have been annihilated. Greed was simply gleeful, much to Kimbley's very apparent irritation. This usually resulted in many more explosions-- as many as was necessary to make the Sin stop grinning. This sometimes took more than an hour. Greed considered it time well spent.
Kimbley didn't seem to like being touched, unless he was the one who initiated the contact, usually in the form of a dispassionate laying-on of hands that didn't heal-- unless one counted death as the ultimate cure.
But when the Crimson Alchemist actually did touch him, sliding a tattooed hand under his vest and along his ribs, Greed had to wonder if for once he was the one who was owned.
The Sin closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
*pant, pant*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-05-10 03:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-10 12:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-10 12:37 pm (UTC)...I'd ask for more love and less whipping, but seeing the way my taste runs, the whipping is love. ^_^;;
I'll prolly repost this in a bit, once I ungum my eyes and figure out what exactly I did in this thing, 'cause I'm a comment whore and, if what I remember is right, this came out really decent. XD