A/N: Standard disclaimers apply. WARNING: Chapter rated for mature psychosexual themes, including slight non-con. Turn back if such scenes discomfort you. As for the chapter titles, they are in no way intended to connote any semblance to actual religious rituals. Your comments are welcome and appreciated. Thanks for reading!
Oh, and thank you, DeathsLittleBirdie for the breathing lessons. :)
Act III: Penance & Punishment
Steel. That was what he imagined she was made of under those liquid yet defiant eyes and slightly parted lips holding back curses and secrets and unimaginable yearnings. Tempered steel that was strong and stainless in its exterior but tainted with minute impurities within, making it pliable … brittle.
He could already feel it corroding under her flammable layers.
Funny how alchemy didn't even have anything to do with it.
The soft, quivering friction of the woman's mouth persuaded Kimblee to reply with a brush of his smile, a mere breath away from a kiss, but he stopped just short of sealing this awaited opening with something much deeper. He quite liked this delightful little cage he had cornered her in, its loose confines giving her every opportunity to struggle and lash out for a chance to escape, yet alluring in the way it forced her to recline into the dresser's narrow surface and the wall behind it.
The alchemist's hand busily rode up her thigh, reaching under and hitching its toned length against his hip. The stirrings below it made very clear to her what he had expected to receive from this bargain. As she involuntarily slid slightly forward, her palm listlessly rebuffed his shoulder only for his other hand to effortlessly wrest control over it. His attentions turned to that stubborn sniping hand, understanding how it was now the only thing about her putting up any semblance of a fight. As she stared transfixed, he wordlessly brought it close to his face; first with his aquiline nose tickling at her wrist, breathing in its intoxicating perfume of cordite and the mild cinnamon-coffee scent imparted by the walnut stock of her rifle. Then, as his lips grazed the heavy tapping of her pulse, he gave in to the temptation to close his mouth over the wrist and tame it with soft rolling strokes of his tongue. A prelude to what was to come.
With a jolt, Riza violently yanked herself away from the torrid kiss, a strangled whimper echoing in her throat.
Kimblee gave out a pleased hum. He considered himself a deliberate, patient man and knew he had all the time to seal – and consummate – their deal. Over and over again. The inconvenient trappings of this war had persisted far too long for his liking and he would damn well not waste this rare offer.
He pulled back and, as he did, traced his fingertips across the line of the woman's jaw, past her chin, and down the hollow of a pale neck peeking above a stiff uniform collar. A small tingle coursed through his spine upon dipping into a tiny bead of sweat that had pooled there and it took an ounce more of restraint than he usually practiced in order not to simply grab her lapel, tear the top off her heaving chest and drink in the essence of her fear and guilt.
But the young cadet interrupted any rash reveries Kimblee could act on by raising the back of one hand to block any further incursion of his fingers. They swapped pregnant looks – his, of amusement, hers imploring – and a flicker of understanding passed between them.
This was all about her choice. He had no qualms allowing this small concession of control. After all, it would be the last she would yield before the actual act of contrition and she was certainly in no position to demand anything from the confessor.
Besides, Kimblee thought as he pulled a chair and straddled it, folding his arms languidly on top of the chair back; he much preferred this front row seat to the show anyway.
The Crimson Alchemist sighed and closed his eyes mirthfully. Again, he reminded himself how truly fortunate he was to be able to enjoy the most fulfilling job in the world.
Grateful the alchemist had given her space yet livid at the fact he intended to watch, Riza slowly and cautiously undressed. She tried as much as she could to steel her hands once so steady with a trigger, but they were both like jelly now as they loosened brass buttons, untied boot laces and unnotched buckles. And as she started to drop the shields of her rank one-by-one into a blue puddle around her feet, Riza stole nimble glances at her watcher from under the fringe of her hair. His gaze was not that of a ravenous leer, but rather one of calm, clinical interest in each individual stage of her exposure.
A small, prideful part of her wondered if Kimblee thought of her undressing as ungraceful or, worse, disappointing. But it was likely he was more interested in reading and evaluating the subtleties of her movements than in the revealing of her body; if she was just a study in action/reaction and if he was simply mentally calculating her responsiveness to stimuli he had planned for her.
Riza bit the bottom of her lip nervously as she dizzily pulled off her black shirt over her head, leaving her clad in only a pristine white corseted camisole and bloomers. Could he really predict her reactions when she herself hadn't much of a clue to her own? She had experienced one or two flings at the academy; however, they were nothing but brash young men – boys, really – with who she fumbled awkwardly and quickly in the dark and who left her staring blankly at ceilings waiting for merciful ends.
The one watching her now was undeniably a man – State Alchemist, late-20s, worldly, highly intelligent … dangerous. She would be like glass in the palms of his hands and – after knowing all her sins as she had laid them out for him – he would no doubt make sure he saw, heard, and felt each step of her penance.
As she collected her clothes into a neat pile on the dressing table, Riza realized what a stupid choice it was to submit to the whims of such an unpredictable man. But she decided stupidity was part of her atonement. She was here, after all, for punishment, not pleasure. However the night wore on, she knew she would feel all the more awful for the experience afterwards.
She paused for a beat. Still, she saw no harm in taking a little extra precaution and reached over to place her cocked pistol on the dresser edge nearest the bed.
The act drew a hearty laugh from Kimblee.
Riza acknowledged with neither a flinch nor a sound, but merely by throwing off the bedcovers and sitting down on the edge of the bed to the groan of soft creaking from its coils. Slowly, she hoisted her legs onto the mattress and lay down. A faint scent of orange blossoms wafted into her nose as her head hit the pillows and, for very brief seconds, she felt nostalgic for the time she last slept in a normal bed, sprawling languorously on freshly laundered sheets, body unconstrained by starchy, scratchy uniforms and bulky steel-capped combat boots. Was it months ago? Weeks? She couldn't remember, but it felt like an eternity.
The scrape of his chair broke her fragrant rhapsodies. Riza closed her eyes tightly and balled anguished hands into the linens as she listened intently to the subsequent clink of metal and rough rustle of cloth. She was deluded. She knew there would be no sleeping on this bed. Moreover, a bitter pang of guilt pierced her heart for entertaining such fanciful thoughts of her own bed when the owners of this one were likely to never return to its warmth and safety.
And the final insult – that two of the Ishval War's most prolific killers would soon defile its happy, intimate memories with the stains of their blasphemy.
Riza buried her face into the pillow hoping the pressure would stem the tide of tears that welled from her wounded soul. So consumed was she with hiding that she hardly felt the man climb in from the foot of the bed.
As though Kimblee had read her mind, he mirrored her whimsies. "How I missed the feel of a proper bed. More so one that has a beautiful woman in it."
She bit her lip hard to quell noises of dissent.
He wasted no time as his large hands leisurely coasted up the length of her legs, lovingly like a sculptor putting the finishing touches to a marble statue. She sucked in a sharp breath, shocked at how soft and smooth those hands were as their warmth soaked up the cold of her skin – hands that were such terrible tools of graphic destruction.
The alchemist clambered over until he hovered on top, forcing Riza to face him out of resignation and curiosity. Her round eyes blinked even wider as she took in the full extent of his nakedness. For reasons she could not fathom, she scanned for physical pathological signs on him as a manner of explaining away his enigma … and found none.
"What, were you expecting a carnival freak or the horrific scars of some sort of hard life?" Kimblee laughed, having caught on to her scrutiny. "I assure you, my perfectly normal upper-middle-class upbringing offered me nothing of the kind, unfortunately."
She swore she picked up a barely perceptible barb to his last word.
"But enough about me." Knees straddling her hips and arms latching on to the curves of her waist, he lifted her away from the refuge of the pillow and into the solid plane of his torso where she couldn't help but become drunk on his clean, homely scent of soap and shave tonic.
He, in turn, leaned in to inhale the perfume of hair where it met the nape of her neck. "Hmm … notes of bergamot, vanilla, rain, and gunpowder," he purred with much satisfaction. "I'm glad war hasn't been an excuse for you not to take care of yourself."
"I've been fortunate. These past few weeks, only a handful of us have had the women's garrison all to ourselves," she explained, deciding not to elaborate on the obvious reasons why. She suddenly felt sheepish from the mere mention of the word 'fortunate'.
"You hardly smell of war at all. Your reward for staying alive perhaps." The man shrunk away from her neck. Adjusting his vision to the pale yellow glow and long shadows of the room, he moved his attentions to her front where he briefly admired the dainty ribbon edging of her silk ivory camisole.
"And certainly, these aren't military issue, are they?" he asked with a throaty chuckle as he deftly undid the shirt's mother-of-pearl buttons between his thumb and index finger.
Riza fluttered her lashes over heavy-lidded downcast eyes, rendered speechless at Kimblee's mockery of her vanity.
"I do love a woman who dolls herself up even in times of strife, though. And you, my dear, doll up nicely."
She tried to ignore how his thumb dallied suggestively on the third round button of her shirt before popping it open. "I guess I merely want to leave a presentable corpse, sir," she deadpanned. Nevertheless, her sarcasm was peppered with grains of truth.
"Oh? Aren't you afraid someone might be tempted to defile such a lovely sight?"
Riza scrunched up her pert nose. "Ishvalans are not known to do such things."
"Who said anything about Ishvalans?" Kimblee chortled. His middle finger dipped into the valley of her bosom newly laid bare. She quivered above the corset stays scarcely holding it up.
"Well, it's good to hold on to vestiges of civility in the middle of battle. They're reminders of what's waiting for you once you've accomplished your job." He loosened one last button, letting the flimsy panels of the garment fall away to reveal the gentle slope of her full breasts. The expression on his face, previously one of inquisitive nonchalance, now hinted at libidinous desire.
"Frankly, I'm less interested in waiting for outcomes and more into enjoying the spoils," the alchemist mouthed huskily into Riza's ear before his fingers wrapped around the back of her head, tilting it upwards to expose her neck to his lips.
She propped on her arms behind her, fists clawed into the linens, eyes blinking at the silhouettes swallowing each other on the ceiling as he laid a path of moist, suckling kisses down her arching throat. Waiting … What's waiting for me? Who … what am I waiting for? The questions swirled in her thoughts, the disciplined synchrony between her body and mind disconnecting as she submitted to the stimulating nuances of Kimblee's touch.
Travelling downwards, he started paying homage to a sizeable purple contusion on her right shoulder made by the repeated recoils of her sniper rifle. It stood out dark and ugly, yet proud, against the peach-tinted cream of her complexion.
"This must hurt quite a bit, no?" Lips pressed on the bruise.
"It's … It's a small price to pay for what I've done," came the breathy reply. Too small.
"Tsk. Such a mark of honor shouldn't have caused you any pain. I guess I have my work cut out for me then." Kimblee's hand that bore the silver moon curved around the underside of a breast where his open smile drifted down from her bruised shoulder and closed over its rosy peak.
Riza let out a high-pitched gasp as she let his weight guide her back down into the mattress. With her arms stretched out to her sides and hands distractedly creasing the sheets, she unfurled a soft, pale canvas for his complete ministration. Where chaste grazes of his lips passed, blazing open-mouthed kisses followed. Where teeth had lightly nipped, a clever tongue would lick it better. He mapped and he memorized – as if touch and taste were the only ways to paint her in his mind.
His skill was nothing like Riza had ever experienced or even imagined as described by books or by her jaded best friend Rebecca – and this was merely foreplay. Yet even as he masterfully plucked at her bouquet of nerves, making them blossom uncontrollably one-by-one, the rational part of her mind rebelled aimlessly, not in forgetfulness like Kimblee was coaxing her to, but ironically, in reminiscence … reminiscence of the only other time she had allowed herself to be half-naked in front of a man fully exposed to her vulnerabilities and grief.
She remembered how she had her back to him the entire time, their eyes never once meeting. But oh, how she saw him, felt him, all of him – his bright, eager round face; his dark, determined eyes burning in studied concentration on the alchemic formulas, and his cheeks blushing as he tried so hard not to trace the symbols with his fingertips. Even then, she could envision his idealistic dreams for Amestris ... recite his carefully plotted life and the people he would have with him. Even then, his future as Fuhrer of the country was as clear and brilliant as the fire he would use to light every citizen's way.
For a split-second, she imagined it was that young man taking her and absolving her of her sins. Riza gritted her teeth and violently shook the thought from her head. Yes, they had made the same optimistic choices; yes, she followed down his long, hard road, but their paths had diverged some time since the start of this final phase of the war and he now had his own demons he had to battle, and so did she.
No. Wrong. She knew she had it reversed. It was she who had opened that path for him. She and her cursed back that was the lure. His moth to her flame.
She was responsible. She was to blame.
Riza decided she was not about to tarnish his face and name and memory on any regret she – and only she alone – would carry. She would spare him that, and more, if she could.
And yet …
Why does it have to be this way? When she met him again on that corpse-strewn hill, his eyes had been lifeless and cold; from his fiery altruism he had made columns of fire out of the very people he wanted to protect. How did it come to this? Riza turned her head away and blinked out tears that began to stream down her face. She quickly threw her right forearm across her eyes to hide the cries. How did she end up killing hundreds of people and seeing the only man she trusted so vanquished? What cruel fate led her to fight in a strange land, to lie in a stranger's bed, to be seduced by the strangest of men?
This … everything … is a mistake.
Kimblee felt her already taut abdominal muscles contract under his tongue which trailed a lingering line from her breasts to her navel. He frowned against the cold skin and stopped midway through untying the drawstring of her bloomers.
"Having second thoughts?" His query was made in jest, but the last word dripped acid.
When Riza replied with only a dampened sniffle and a slight jerk of her limbs, the major cleaved a path up towards her by prying her knees apart and sliding the length of his lithe sculpted body against hers, making her feel as if she was being restrained by a smooth stalk of pale, pliant bamboo. Below, in contrast, the thin barrier of silk covering her quim held back the brusque hard heat attempting to rip through its threads. One hand grabbed at the arm that covered her face and pinned its wrist on the pillow above her head, while the other took her chin to face him.
"Ho-oh … What's this?"
"Nothing, sir," she trebled while reaching to wipe her tears with a free hand only for it to be held fast to her side.
Brows knitted fiercely over Kimblee's flashing amber gaze. "Why do you cry? If you want an escape, let your mind go. By all means, imagine someone else on top of you. Call out his name if you like. A former lover? A professor at the academy? Perhaps the young Flame Alchemist who shares the same kind of misery you do?"
Her lips pursed into a trembling pout.
With a knowing sneer twisting on his lips, he brought both of Riza's hands above her head and touched his forehead to hers as he continued, "Otherwise, do not avert your eyes from the choice you made."
Kimblee pulled back in time to catch the surprise in her watery brown depths. He countered her expression with a razor glint of his eyes that found her tears amusing. He then let go of her wrists and impetuously drew her into an embrace with one arm while the other trussed beside her head. "You should see yourself, Miss Hawkeye. You truly are a thing of beauty and brutal perfection in this desert. But those tears are wasted on something so insignificant as the past ... wasted on those you've already killed who won't care you shed them after the fact."
He shook his head. "Pity. And this after you've been responding so nicely."
Riza looked at the officer like he ordered. With pragmatic acquiescence, she wrapped the portrait of her hopes in a heavy mantle of velvet, hid him in the silver-lined lockbox of her unrealized dreams and thought not of his face or name. This she did to confront the picture of her despair, laid bare and free to consummate her nightmares.
Solf J. Kimblee, the name of madness itself, yet so easy to succumb to in everything from his malevolent attractiveness to his godless brilliance and his honeyed, graceful speech.
How hard and low she let herself fall.
The cadet's eyes bled out the last of her tears and went wide in a glassy stare. "Major Kimblee, my apologies. I do not intend to turn away from this … from you." A shaking hand smoothed over the rippled contours of his shoulder and reached out across his neck where her fingers laced into the tight bind of his hair. Finding the tie holding it back, she tugged it down and watched the strands spill wildly around and over them like rivers of onyx curtaining their faces in darkness. Riza's breath held for a second at how magnificently feral he looked, making her realize how she was not only going to be taken by a moral beast but a physical one as well.
A low growl rumbled in the man's larynx with his appreciation for her act also manifesting firmly against her thighs. Two of Kimblee's fingers swiped away the tears on both her cheeks. "Good, now let's wipe those tears and start thinking pleasant thoughts, shall we?" His words were silken with comfort but promised nothing but obliterating forgetfulness. He took the same two fingers and sucked the salty liquid from them. His hand then descended beneath the loosened band of her silk drawers and detoured wetly across sensitive petals and folds of skin before burrowing between the warm pillows of flesh into her opening.
Riza winced and gave out a shrill whimper as Kimblee pushed past her unyielding entrance. One of her hands gripped a fistful of sheet while the other clawed nails into his back as he probed the depths and shallows of her core. His lips, meanwhile, started their own assault above, purpling the pale skin of her neck up to where it met her chin where the fervor of his kiss snapped her head back. He then sealed his kiss by planting his mouth over hers where, to her annoyance, the assailing contact caused her teeth to cut into her bottom lip and draw blood. She felt a chuckle echo into her mouth as his tongue prowled, lapped thirstily at the bleeding, and then chased after her stubbornly elusive one.
Briefly, her body struggled out of sheer necessity. Her strength tested against his. But a thick, feverish soup of delirium flooded the young woman's head and began to inundate the last vestiges of her resistance. Sooner than she expected, her lips and tongue answered coyly to Kimblee's explorations where she sampled hints of spice and fine cognac on his palate … legs parted slightly to ease his passage – and her pain … pelvis swayed tentatively to the sensuous sliding of his hand.
"There. This isn't so bad, is it?" he crooned hoarsely against her swollen lips, briefly breaking his kiss. His thumb started caressing the hooded crest of her flesh in rhythm with his plunging strokes. "The best kind of pleasure is that which is born from pain, wouldn't you say so?"
"I don't … I'm not sure … ah ..." she gasped out a paltry reply before a crushing mouth muzzled her again.
As Riza's arms finally slung around his neck and a leg hitched against his hip summoning his insistence deeper into her submission; it occurred to her that his discipline would be dealt not in blood, or bruises, or raw pain, but in absolute pleasure – or more precisely, shame at feeling, wanting it in the middle of atonement.
It suddenly became all too simple. Tonight, she would become this man's whore, and her payment, this punishment.
Had he been a man of limited composure, Kimblee knew at the point the blonde cadet's thighs opened beneath him in timid welcome he could have barged and poured his savage release into her. But no, that would be the exact kind of infliction she would expect from an officer of his … reputation and proclivities. That method of punishment was much too mundane and effortless for the likes of her and her scrambled moral code. It would be easy for Officer Cadet Riza Hawkeye to attribute the raw seduction to his supposed cruelty; make it easy for her to recant all responsibility for her chosen actions simply because he was in an official position of authority over her.
Frankly, he couldn't understand why people had to make the act of choosing so complicated and difficult for themselves; why a fellow soldier with accountability equal to his own should be excused for deflecting her shame on someone like him simply because he conveniently had none of that to express.
Well, he thought he was certainly qualified to show her the fine line between choice and consequence and the river of hypocrisy that flowed between them. Indeed, as he delightedly felt the woman's hypocrisy enveloping his fingers, he would make sure every single kiss and moan and spasm was delivered on her own accord. He would enjoy the viscous entanglement of their bodies, taking sumptuous pleasure in gradually emptying her mind of reason and quickly overloading it with buzzing, flashing sensations. He would toy torturously with the precarious balance of her punishment - leave a bruise, salve it with a caress. Thrust roughly, then tease with a lingering withdrawal. Make her bleed, and then wash it away with the liquids of her lust.
If she was perceptive enough, she might even catch a glimpse of how it was to see things his way.
Kimblee broke contact with Riza's near and nether regions to watch her balance at play. As her tear-stained face contorted beautifully, he could taste pain and pleasure in the faint coppery tanged sweetness on his fingers; kissing her again so she could savor on his tongue how he'd both hurt and aroused her. Lifting himself off just enough for the stormy air to waft around their sweat sheened skin in a delicious chill, Kimblee slid down the length of her shivering form, slipping the silk off her hips as he did. The ends of his mouth curled up when she feebly kicked the garment away when it gathered around her heels and he rewarded her assist by kneeling before her, hoisting one leg over his shoulder and dotting kisses on it starting from her ankle.
Riza craned her head slightly forward, gaze wide with bewilderment under the mess of her bangs with breaths coming in short, rapid open-mouthed puffs in nervous anticipation of where those kisses would end. Kimblee's almost lupine eyes – deep pools the color of honey flecked with gold mischief and binding spells – honed into hers, never releasing them as lips traveled upwards. From the way her body seized up, he could tell she had never experienced what he was planning to do to her. The alchemist could almost laugh at the revelation; how this exquisite prize he caught - a ruthless killer as she was - could also be so emotionally, morally, and now, even physically – virginal.
He lazily traced his tongue along the juncture of the girl's thigh and belly, back and forth, getting close to her center then pulling up, taking his idle time. If it was punishment she was after, he was more than willing to make her suffer. If she wanted a moment to forget, he knew himself most capable of erasing her thoughts and filling her mind with fleeting insanity.
Trussing on elbows, she tried to scoot away from his wicked teasing, but powerful hands locked her hips firmly against the mattress. The more his huffing mingled with her moist heat, the more her thighs scissored to cool the swelter. And when Riza finally dropped her head into the pillows and audibly held her breath, Kimblee gently spread her legs apart and lowered his head between them.
He would melt her into a powerless, massless puddle of burning, creamy flesh and loose limbs. He would dive headlong into it, bathe in it, drink it all in. Nothing would sound and taste better than a perfectly orchestrated deconstruction. And despite the things he told her, he didn't know if the young soldier would still allow herself to one day forget the things she had done in this war, but, smugly, he knew she would always, always remember him … remember this.
Riza arched her back and exhaled a long drawn-out sigh. She lost all concept of time, its passage a thick haze swirling together with the inky emptiness in her fevered head and which was sporadically interrupted by sparks of brilliant white light behind closed eyes. What little coherent thought she could string along cursed the traitorous, greedy body. Exactly how long had it been since it opened up completely in lewd submission to his digits, lips, and tongue circling and darting in sublime tandem? Since when had she started thrashing her head from side to side and had hands weaving and tangling their fingers in the silk of his hair? In the din of the loud buzzing of her head, could she actually hear soft mewls resonating sensuously from her throat?
The woman's legs told her the minutes must have been long, aching where they had been splayed and suspended, aches that were in contrast to the syrupy sensations frothing between them. She dared not open her eyes to the sight of her body's shamelessness; it was enough just to feel herself writhing under his tactile assaults. Even the man's long raven locks were not spared in toying with her, webbing damply across her thighs like so many climbing tendrils eagerly and jealously attempting to mimic the glib, serpentine tongue that had laid full claim to her slick core. She tried to concentrate on her pleasure, on her completion; otherwise, it seemed he would go on endlessly until she fell. She knew she couldn't take more of the extended shame.
Oh god ... if it was only possible to drown in this forever.
Mercifully, Riza sensed her ordeal building up to an explosive climax as her nerve endings seemingly began to converge at the base of her spine. Her breathing shallowed and toes curled against her seducer's sides as fingertips raked into his scalp. With a yelp, she was soon overcome with shudders and he sent her over the edge again and again, going on for the length of his choosing before he subdued her - like a whisperer to a wild filly ... stroking, reining, taming ... until he finally released her from his hold.
She instinctively clamped her knees together to tide the flow of her arousal and slowly fluttered eyes open to see Kimblee at her side licking the glisten off his lips and looking very pleased. He mouthed a vague compliment she couldn't quite catch over the clap of thunder outside when – not even allowing her to catch breaths or senses about her – his strong arms carried and shifted her into a kneeling position facing the wall against the side of the bed.
Riza gave a small cry of protest. Like a newly born foal, she tried to steady the post-orgasmic wobble in her legs as he zealously peeled off the gauzy camisole that still covered her back. She tried to resist by turning and grappling at the alchemist, but he merely squared her shoulders forward, roughly pulled down on the fabric and cuffed her wrists until the silk bunched around them. The tattooed frescoes lay bare and striking to his sight.
He hummed wondrously. She froze as her world crumbled.
"Well, well. I didn't expect to see this literally in the flesh."
"Please, sir. Don't ..." Riza demurred weakly into the wall, unable to say more, aware of its futility.
Even in the dingy orange-tinted milky moonlight washing over their kneeling forms, Riza could almost feel the man's sharp stare etch hotly on her back, raptly studying its sepia-inked glyphs, animistic sigils and alchemic cuneiforms. She had regained a fraction of rationality in the way it mortified her how it was possible he could decipher the keys to unlocking the complete manifestation of flame alchemy. All because of her carelessness.
As if sensing the cadet's trepidation, Kimblee waned his attention on her tattoos and roped her into a spooning embrace, molding her generously curving backside to his rigid front. A low laugh rumbled from his chest.
"Do you want to hear a story?" he asked rhetorically, resting his chin on her shoulder, a stray hand creeping to fondle a breast.
Riza sagged dejectedly into his lap, afraid of what lessons he had for her now.
"Many years ago, a young man who had spent his whole childhood in the study of alchemy and all its applications suddenly found it wanting of something as soon as he hit a certain age of reason. Alchemy, as it was being practiced, was all about practicality, harmony, order ... and its perfection measured against such."
"The young man wondered if perfection could also be found in chaos and, if under such unpredictable parameters, such alchemy could challenge the rules of equivalent exchange. And so, realizing this, he set off to search for the most beautiful, primordial kind of alchemy, one whose transmutations can be appreciated simply for its own sake and not on its perceived benefits to society. The kind that arouses all senses and with a scale that can evoke the whole spectrum of emotions – from euphoria to despair."
"His search took him to all corners of Amestris until one day, he found himself in East City, standing before the decrepit estate of a master whose renown for an alchemy of such violent splendor was only whispered about. But the alchemist looked nothing like the magnificent portrait that preceded his genius and reputation. His face was cursed by deep lines of regret; his eyes, chasms of death itself. And behind him was a meek girl of about ten, preparing tea in the kitchen, her grave prettiness suffocating and withering under the alchemist's diseased miasma."
"Unfazed, the young man tipped his hat and politely introduced himself and his goals. He was only too willing to relieve the master of his alchemic burden if he could have the honor of learning it from him."
Kimblee paused as he idly mapped the runic activation formulas on Riza's skin with his fingertips. "The master looked at the eager student straight in the eye and said, 'Flame can only be handled by one of equal temperament. One whose soul has little fire will not be able to control the flame. But one who has too much, however, will have flame eventually controlling him.'"
"The flame master then continued to tell the young man, 'Unfortunately, I can see much brilliance in you, but your soul burns with a fire that rivals that of hell. If I taught you this alchemy, neither would you control flame nor would the flame control you …'
'... it will become you.'"
Kimblee's voice suddenly took on a nostalgic tone. "Strangely, the young man had not been offended. In fact, everything became clear as day. It had taken him many months and many journeys in his search for the perfect alchemy, but with just those few words from the alchemist, he finally understood where and how he would find it. Satisfied, the man said his thanks and bid the master a good day. But before leaving, he posed one last question ..."
"'Your daughter … she is deemed gifted enough to carry on the flame for you is she not? '"
Kimblee's hand caressed the side of Riza's face. "Would you like to guess what his answer was?"
She fixed round eyes at the rough, ashen masonry in front of her, knowing full well the dénouement of the story.
"Nothing. The old man simply replied with a disappointed, glazed look and a slam of the door."
The Crimson Alchemist pushed away and held the woman at arm's length, bending down to where the tattoos ended at the small of her back. His lips feathered against their patterns. "It turns out that flame alchemy really didn't meet the man's needs after all. It is visually gorgeous yet too quiet. Terrifying yet too slow. The aftermath drab in its monochrome ..." Kimblee said in between passes of his fluid tongue painting over the twin basilisks that spiraled around Riza's tingling spine. Her palms raised and pressed against the wall to brace against the tremors where rapture and anguish dueled for dominance over control of her motions.
"Happily, not long after that encounter, he ended up with an alchemy that suited him perfectly. It was instant in its gratification, artful in the vivid colors and textures it produced and – most importantly – the sounds … such a magnificent symphony created from its sounds."
Kimblee sighed ecstatically as he seemed to recall a medley of pieces collected in his years of conducting concertos of explosions and screams. Ready to commit Riza's atonement to its punishment, his hands spanned the flare of her hips and knees forced her thighs apart.
"It's funny how two people who were denied the master's flame should come together like this in war to help fan it." His pelvis cradled snugly into her backside and brought hard flesh to her cusp where it chafed impatiently at its downy entrance.
"I wonder though if Berthold Hawkeye sorely underestimated the fire in the soul of the apprentice he eventually gave flame to. Because don't you agree how the 'Hero of Ishval' is doing such a stunning job of using it?" He leaned over to the side of her face, ardent grunts steaming onto her cheek.
Riza squirmed out of the latch of his lap. Fingers dug viciously into her hips to grind her back into it. "Stop it," she pleaded.
"... but none so stunning as the cruel lengths your father went to hide it. That was harsh." Words poured hotly, thickly into her ear.
"Stop, please." Damn it, take me now … Take everything.
"I'm actually quite jealous."
A quick thrust followed and Riza cried out sharply as Kimblee sank deeply into her. Whether it was from the sting of his last words or from his girth filling her needful void, she knew not anymore. The only wretched certainty was how her treasonous body was so ready for him. She bit on her lip to stem a sob, but mounting pleasure won over her need for more tears.
"Shhhh … There, there. I promised I'd make you forget, didn't I?"
She gave a brisk nod and with her flushed cheek rubbing against the wall and fingertips clutched to its surface, the young woman calmly rode the mellow rhythm of his rocking which was slow like an adagio. Apologies played like a mantra in her head for baring secrets entrusted to her by the two men closest to her; how easily she had divulged it to another. Yet somehow, she was thankful – and fortunate – this man cared nothing for them.
She didn't think she could be so lucky next time.
He wants only this … Riza tried to convince herself, the hoods of her eyes fluttering in approaching ecstasy. Just this … o-ohh … Kimblee's broad strokes grazed over a sensitive spot high up within her keep. Again. And again. Warm, wet velvet wrapped tighter around his sliding length in a clinch. It was his turn to trill an approving growl with adroit long fingers of one hand returning the favor on her swollen bud of nerves while the other cupped over her fist bracing the wall.
Two hands stained with so much blood clasped, sodden with the lesser sins of sex and sweat. The ironic yet intimate gesture surprised Riza; nonetheless, she took slight comfort in the way they moved in concert as though dancing a tango. Time and memory had already been drowned in the seemingly endless ebb and flow of their coupling, her ripe body opened up to the sensation of being ravaged in a ménage à trois of textures – hot, sweat-drenched muscle against dewy skin against cold, grainy stone. Kimblee intensified his pace. Riza held fast. Her head whiplashed onto his broad shoulder and her hand reached back to comb into his hair and boldly press him to the crook of her neck.
As he nipped and sucked ravenously on her offering of skin, the staggering mélange of sensations caused Riza's timid whimpers to crescendo into demanding moans that punctuated her labored panting. Needing to bring the symphony of her suffering to its finalé, the alchemist grabbed her by the waist and wrestled her off the sheets that had gathered in a heap around their knees. He threw her face down back into the bed, jerking her hips upward before swiftly re-entering from behind her suppliant form.
Riza could swear Kimblee was moving to a grandiose sonata he exuberantly composed in his mind, with her coasting in glissando with him. The tempos and melodies changed with each movement; at first mute to her ears, but then she began to catch the sonorous accents … the howl of the wind … the percussion beats of the rain … distant roars of thunder … the rhythmic creaking of the bed … the lullaby of skin gliding on skin … all harmonizing with the primal music of their mating. Thoughts of death and sin deafened under the impassioned notes as her keening voice started to join in accompaniment. Sonata was now aria.
Riza reached out and gripped the metal bars at the head of the bed, her body flexing sinuously to take in Kimblee to the hilt. Every push and pull on her was a vicious cycle of emptying and filling … pain out, pleasure in … until she was simply a tightly sprung coil holding back a swarm of butterflies waiting to be snapped.
One thrust burying far into her channel was all it took to bring her over the precipice. The tense knot in her belly unwound sending countless neurons flying in, around, and about her quaking form, and with them, every ache she had painstakingly kept prisoner of her internal war was finally released.
Riza tossed her head back in crooning soft pleading mewls as heat flooded her veins, which mounted outright into unbridled wails when, moments later, she felt a warm, smooth torrent rushing in her core. Never had she experienced such a luxuriant vortex of sensations within that she selfishly closed her coated pulsating walls around them, hoping to contain the churning for a little while longer.
But soon, even the soldier's trained endurance failed her and she crumpled limply into the covers, the slippery entanglements reluctantly loosened. As she smothered her heaving into the pillow and shook off the straggling jolts of her climax, Riza knew her flesh, her mind – her soul – had fractured into thousands of pieces and in each jagged piece was a requiem. The Crimson Alchemist had broken her … no … she had already been riddled with cracks since long ago; he was merely there for the shattering. For the moment, she remembered nothing. No faces. No promises. Not even her own name. And oh, how it was so complete, so liberating, so devastating …
Her last spasm floated out of her like a ghost fading into darkness.
… so good.
(to be concluded)