Catarina (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} catdevigri) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} no_true_pair,@ 2011-04-25 13:59:00 |
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Title: To Tonic From Toxin
Author:
catdevigriFandom: Crossover - Fullmetal Alchemist x Tales of Legendia
Pairing/characters: Solf J. Kimblee/Fenimore Xelhes
Rating: (hard) R
Warnings: Sex, trauma, dub-con, violence, general creepiness
Word count: 975
Prompt/challenge you're answering: Fenimore and Kimblee, pick your poison
Author's comment: Sequel to last year's Guardian! It just gets more disturbing, doesn't it? ^^; And this definitely leaves things open for more. Please just ignore me as I likely continue this next round. XD
Fenimore had not slept well since the attack. She did not know where Thyra was. Everyone else from the village was either captured or dead. She owed her freedom and her safety at this point to the powerful and frightening Mr. Kimblee, the one man, who more than all the others, had been prepared. She had been useless, unable to rise and help him as he blasted out a hole with his fiery teriques and collected the broken remains of their people for burial. It was not exactly the best feeling, being indebted to this slightly unbalanced warrior, but each day since the attack she found herself pushed into relying on him more and more.
He picked the remnants of the house to shelter them, cooked scraps of food into a meal, and sat up patiently, holding her in his arms at night. At first the "holding" was innocent enough. Like an older brother, he put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned her head against him. They shared a tattered blanket. As she weakened, the connection deepened. She had not seen another friendly face in over a week. She dreamt only of the dead.
It all happened a bit too fast, she thought afterward. From watching Mr. Kimblee patrol the village edge, to praying with him over the mass grave, to eating a bowl of fish stew, to keeping silent as he slipped his hand under her shirt. He did not make any secret of his intentions and she told him, "yes," not "no," but...despite the way he touched her, the whole experience felt to her like a miniature massacre of her pre-disaster dreams and morals. She had not planned on this. Their twisted Rite of Feriyen had consisted of his running into the water and blowing a man to bit around her.
What if they were the only Ferines left (panic and fear supplied this illogical thought)? Too young, unwed, no other women to help her, what if she became pregnant? Her stomach lurched at the notion. She had become so paralyzed. Never before had she allowed herself to be so wretchedly dependent. She laid back on their cot and let him take her.
Kimblee treated it all so neutrally. His ease in the topsy-turvy situation could be soothing, but it was in the manner of a mind-fogging opiate rather than a hot tisane. He spoke to her much as he had before, as though their new intimacy was a natural extension of their past acquaintance. "Am I your wife now?" she asked as he pitched himself steadily into her body one day.
"That's what you should say if we meet with other Ferines," he answered facilely, although considering the circumstances, his golden eyes could not hold back quite all of their surprise. "It would put us both up for shame were it otherwise."
"Other Ferines..." Fenimore closed her eyes and longed for their (chaste) embrace.
So this was how she became a wife. Her husband was a tumultuous hurricane of fluids: semen and spit and blood. She could not love being penetrated by him, but her heart sang the same war-like tune as his when a scouting party from Crusand returned to poke at the charred remains of the village and he deftly wielded his artes, rending their flesh like water. When had she become so bloodthirsty? He left the bloody backspray on while he probed her, and seemed to enjoy even greater satisfaction because of it. Fenimore licked some splatter from his cheek. How strange was it that she did not mind?
"No one friendly is going to return here," Kimblee concluded one morning while the rosy light of drawn still tinged the beach. "There's nothing for us here. We need to see if our sister villages are still standing. We need to find whatever scraps remain of our people."
That he was so decisive about it provided her no comfort. The world was so unknown to her and so hostile. Try as she might to explain her fears, Fenimore could manage no words to make him reconsider. "If you want so badly to remain behind, I can leave you," was his closest offer.
"I will think about it," she answered, trying to be aloof and prickly like in the old days.
"Please do so," he said, coming closer to his past gentlemanly self as well. But he caressed her cheek and left her trembling. She backed up under his kiss until she felt the smooth pressure of an old wall pressing against the small of her back as firmly as he was kissing and groping and eventually pushing into her from the front.
"In another village," he imagined or promised, "We'll have a proper home and an oven where you can do your baking while I teach those who'll listen how to protect themselves."
"Ah!" she groaned, as more than fingers fit its way in.
"They will listen to me there- when an attack comes!" he vowed, jamming her back and up against the stones, lifting her onto her toes. Caught between these solidly opposing forces, his greedy grasping of her breasts and torso hurt her, but for the first time in all their couplings she felt something more than the merest trace of physical pleasure. Perhaps it was the pain that sated her, perhaps it was simply a final surrender- she would go along to another village, she would be his wife, they would belong to one another.
The altered tenor of her gasps did not fail to catch his ear. Fenimore's coming climax spurred Kimblee to action, kissing her neck, grinding her into the wall. She threw back her head, her whole body jerking. She had come to desire what had once seemed a poison. Toxin to tonic, she moaned out her first and then second climax.