Enigma

Shamelessly stolen from calicedesang

Sun, 24 Feb 2008 20:56:34 GMT

1)Are you currently in a serious relationship?

2)What was your dream growing up?

3)What talent do you wish you had?

4)If I bought you ad rink, what would it be?

5)Favourite vegetable?

6)What was the last book you read?

7)What zodiac signs are you?

8)Any tattoos/piercings? Where?

9)Worst habit?

10)If you saw me walking down the street would you offer me a ride?

11)What is your favourite sport?

12)Do you have a Negative or Optimistic attitude?

13)What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator with me?

14)Worst thing to ever happen to you?

15)Tell me one weird thing about you.

16)Do you have any pets?

17)What if I showed up at your house unexpectedly?

18)What was your first impression of me?

19)Do you think clowns are cute or scary?

20)If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be?

21)Would you be my crime partner or conscience?

22)What color eyes do you have?

23)Ever been arrested?

24)Bottle or can soda?

25)If you won $10,00 today what would you do with it?

27)What's your favourite place to hang at?

28)Do you believe in ghosts?

29)Favourite thing to do in your spare time?

30)Do you swear a lot?

31)Biggest pet peeve?

32)In one word, how would you descrube yourself?

33)Do you believe/appreciate romance?

35)Do you believe in god?

36)Will you repost this so I can fill it out and do the same for you?

My Christmas Stocking. Leave a virtual gift!

Mon, 11 Dec 2006 16:44:39 GMT

Gacked from wicked_swann. Leave me something if you love me!

Xmas Stocking

leave a gift for enigmaroolz

get your stocking

As if I didn't already know this! --grin--

Mon, 04 Dec 2006 17:37:49 GMT

HowManyOfMe.com

There are:
0
people with my name
in the U.S.A.

How many have your name?

Shamelessly stolen from gossamerwings36

In Case You Didn't Know

Fri, 01 Dec 2006 20:22:02 GMT

Today (December 1) is World AIDS Day.

http://www.worldaidscampaign.info/

http://www.worldaidsday.org/default.asp

To my LJ friends who are HIV+ . . . you know that I'm in your corner!

Christmas cheer for those fighting in Iraq

Tue, 28 Nov 2006 17:42:35 GMT

Something very cool that Xerox is doing.

Go to this web site: www.letssaythanks.com

Pick out a thank you card and Xerox will print it and it will be sent to a soldier that is currently serving in Iraq .

You can't pick out who gets the card, but it will go to some member of the armed services.

It would be great if we could get everyone we know to send one!

Please send a card. It's FREE and it only takes seconds (I just did it).

Wouldn't it be wonderful if our armed services people received a bunch of these?

Whether you're for or against the war, our men and women over there need to know we're behind THEM!

Harry Potter is Satan Incarnate!

Tue, 05 Sep 2006 23:41:34 GMT

Or so says the Vatican: http://www.cbc.ca/story/arts/national/2006/09/03/harrypotter-exorcist-pope.html

Uh-huh. If the Christian church thinks that Harry Potter is Satan incarnate, then we're ALL in trouble!

FMA Manga, volume 9

Fri, 01 Sep 2006 17:08:23 GMT

SPOILER WARNING! IF YOU HAVE NOT READ FMA MANGA VOLUME 9 (provided you are interested in the manga at all), DO NOT READ THIS POST! IT REVEALS SOME SURPRISES! (If you have no intention of reading the manga, then read away.)

Well, I was all excited about getting FMA volume 9 last night (volume 8 was SOOOO good and SOOOO funny that I just giggled the whole way through it!). And uh . . . wow! --sighing--

I love Roy Mustang as a character. He appeals to me in so many ways on so many levels that Poptart Woman has accused me of falling in love with a cartoon character. --small smile-- loreamara sent me a Roy figurine that I keep on my desk at work to remind me of my happy place. --another small smile-- In the anime series, though Roy's actions are not always understood by the other characters, the writers go to great lengths to show that Roy actually has a lot of integrity. In fact, if anything, he cares too much about others.

(LAST SPOILER WARNING! BEWARE!)
But in volume 9, 2nd Lt. Maria Ross is arrested for the death of Maes Hughes. (Envy, of course, was impersonating Lt. Ross when Maes was last seen by witnesses.) Through a weird series of events (which I haven't quite figured out yet, but they involve "66" aka "Barry the Chopper"), Lt. Ross escapes from the military prison and is on the run. Of course, she's innocent (we all know that!), but "66" basically tells her to escape or be chopped up; so she escapes. Roy hears about it and ends up going after her and literally frying her to avenge Maes' death. --blink blink-- And he's not sorry in the least . . . in spite of Armstrong's attempt to tell him that he didn't have all the facts!

Uh . . . wow! For those of you (if any of you) who have read the manga series already (yeah, I know it's online, but I didn't want to "cheat" by reading it here first! It's bad enough that I've already seen the bootleg copies of the entire anime series, though they're every bit as enjoyable seeing them again now that they've just about finished coming out on DVD), I have a question: Does Roy ever regret that action? Tell me that he discovers his mistake and that he at least feels sorry for poor Lt. Ross!

I realize that the anime and the manga really go their separate ways because they were written by two different people at the same time, basically. The original creator explained the basic storyline to the anime writers when she gave permission for the anime, but she obviously realized that those writers were going to take liberties with the characters (since they weren't fully developed at that time . . . plus, there were characters that weren't even WRITTEN at that time, like Ling).

Yet . . . one of the basic PREMISES in the anime is that Roy, though not always what he appears to be, is not only a man of integrity but a man who doesn't believe in revenge for the sake of revenge. Isn't that what the episode "Hohenheim of Light" blatantly stated??? I find it very difficult to reconcile what his actions in volume 9 say about his character with the character I've come to know and love in the anime. (And honestly, I thought perhaps he had fried someone else to beyond recognition so he could save Lt. Ross and hide her while they sorted it all out, but I think the "dental records" comment makes it pretty obvious that it definitely WAS Lt. Ross, even if the prison bracelet didn't completely confirm it.)

FMA Fan Fic Untitled

Sun, 27 Aug 2006 19:37:18 GMT

FIC:
Title: Untitled
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Al x Roy
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2781
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and this is written purely for enjoyment purposes.
Warnings: Movie spoilers big time. Hence, if you aren't at least familiar with the end of the series, then you don't want to read this.
Summary: Alphonse lifted his eyebrows at Roy’s use of the present tense. “So . . . you must think he’s still alive, too!”
Notes: This is for momoiro_usagi. She is the only one who asked me to write anything. Also, she's really going through some stress right now as she gets ready to return to school. Un-beta'd. Feel free to offer corrections. Any and all comments are welcome.

“I nearly never found you, General,” Alphonse grinned as he held out his gloved hands to the fire. “You’re about as far North as I guess I’ve ever been.”

Roy Mustang turned from securing the door again the cutting wind that rattled the hinges and whistled lightly into every possible draft, making the rustic cabin out-post almost unbearably cold. He set the rifle in the corner and gave a slight smile that almost seemed a grimace when seen against the extensive eye-patch covering the left side of his face. “Yes, it is very close to our Northern border.” He paused to shirk out of his heavy woolen overcoat. Hanging it on a hook close to the door, he added, “And . . . I’m not a general any more. You can call me Roy, if you like.” He turned to survey the youth at his hearth.

Alphonse smiled innocently and shrugged. “I don’t remember much, really. Just what I’ve been told.” Tilting his head to one side as he regarded the older man, he asked, “What did I call you before?”

Mustang took a moment to respond, then finally moved to join his visitor, sitting on a crate that had been pulled up to the hearth. “Colonel. . . . You called me Colonel . . . or Colonel Mustang.” He tried an ingratiating smile that felt odd to his lips. “But you can call me Roy now.” He sighed as he let the smile fade away and picked up the poker to stoke the fire.

Alphonse said nothing as the feeling returned slowly to his fingers and toes. He remained in the red cloak that had belonged to his brother, too cold to doff it for the time being. The dark-haired soldier did not look pleased with his presence, but Alphonse had not found means of informing the man of his impending visit, much less requesting an audience. Lt. Havoc and Lt. Breda had provided directions for him, and Captain Hawkeye had even requested that he deliver a small package, providing him an excuse in case the man refused to let him enter. However, he was here for his own reasons, which had nothing to do with the military. And he had not figured out how to breach the subject with the man.

Without warning, Roy gave him the opening he needed. “You . . . you remind me a lot of Fullmetal.”

Al turned to warm his backside and smiled brightly as he gazed down at Roy, who was still poking at the fire without looking at him. “Yeah . . . a lot of people tell me that.” He grinned suddenly. “But I’m a lot taller than he was.”

At that, Roy looked up with a genuine smirk, recalling how volatile Edward was when even the slightest mention was made about his height. “Yes, you are. But I don’t think he would appreciate hearing that.”

Alphonse lifted his eyebrows at Roy’s use of the present tense. “So . . . you must think he’s still alive, too!”

The man quickly diverted his dark gaze to the fire, hanging up the poker before tossing two more logs into the midst of the blaze, sending sparks flying. After another moment, he murmured, “Yes. I do.”

The honey-haired youth decided he was finally sufficiently thawed to remove the cloak and hung it beside the soldier’s heavy coat. When he returned to the hearth, he sat opposite his dark-haired companion, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Well, actually . . . that’s why I came, Gen- . . . uh . . . Roy.” Seeing no reaction from the man who still gazed into the flames, he pressed on. “Can you tell me . . . well . . . anything about where you think he is now? Anything at all?” He paused again, and when Roy still didn’t respond, he continued, “I . . . I have these dreams about him. . . . All the time. . . . I . . . I dream that I’m 17 and that I have a weak body, but that I’m living with Ed and we make things that fly up into the sky.” He paused, his own gaze turning inward. “I know it’s weird. But . . . but they’re so vivid! I . . . I can’t believe that there’s nothing to them!”

At length, Roy looked up and met Alphonse’s gaze. “I have dreams, too. And not just about Edward.” He turned back to the fire, picking up the poker to adjust the new logs. “Hughes is there, as well . . . in some kind of uniform . . . but I don’t think he’s military.” At the memory, another genuine smile graced his features. He was still a handsome man, in spite of the eye patch.

Alphonse noted the pleased expression, and so did not comment until Roy replaced the poker and sat back, giving him his full attention. With a small smile, he admitted, “I’m sorry, Roy. I . . . I don’t remember Hughes. But Winry talks about him sometimes. Was he someone who helped me and Ed on our adventure?”

To the teen’s relief, Roy smiled again, albeit a bit sadly. “Yeah . . . you could say that. He was a good friend . . . to everyone who knew him.” With that, he sighed and let the smile drift away. “But as for where they are . . . I can’t possibly say, Al. I know that Hughes is definitely dead. He wasn’t . . . transmuted . . . like Ed was. My dreams don’t make sense. Maybe that’s all they are . . . just dreams. But . . . you’re right.” Here, he sighed again. “They seem far too vivid to be . . . nothing more than dreams. . . . And the fact that I’ve dreamed of the same . . . place . . . again and again . . . well . . . . Why would I continue to dream of a place I’ve never been?”

Alphonse nodded, his ponytail bouncing around his shoulders. “Yes! Exactly! It’s a particular place! It’s like . . . I should know it or something!” He frowned gently. “And maybe we have been there before.” His frown deepened. “I wish I could remember what happened during those four years! I wish I could remember where all we went, who all we met! It’s like this gaping hole that I have no idea how to explore. And I can’t help but think that somehow, if I could remember, then I could find Ed now.”

The dark-haired man regarded Alphonse in silence for a moment, then stood to cross the room to the two-burner stove in the corner. “It’s getting late. You’ll never make it back before dark, even if you left right away.” He filled the kettle with water and used a match to light the burner it had occupied. A medium-sized pot simmered on the other burner. “I’ll make some tea. You are welcome to join me for dinner, though all I have is stew with a bit of hard bread.”

He glanced back at the teen, then swept his eyes to the bed in the corner. “I’m afraid you’ll either have to share my bed or take the floor.” He gave a small smile. “And I wouldn’t recommend the floor. . . . It’s gets really cold when the fire dies down.”

Alphonse followed Roy’s gaze to the corner, then turned his attention back to the dark-haired man. He hadn’t even thought about sleeping arrangements when he had set out. Not even Lt. Havoc or Lt. Breda had warned him about exactly how tiny the outpost was. He shrugged and smiled. “I don’t mind sharing if you don’t mind. I’m sorry that I didn’t think of that before. Really, I didn’t mean to barge in on you and, well, be a nuisance.”

“You aren’t a nuisance.” Roy turned to lift the cover of the pot and stirred it. “I’m glad for the company, actually.” He snorted softly. “Imagine that,” he murmured more to himself than to Al.

Lacking a table, they sat by the fire to eat. Alphonse filled Roy in on the latest news of everyone he knew. He also related his travels since his teacher’s death and his surprise at how widely-known his famous brother was. “I have pictures of us . . . well, Winry has pictures of us together.” Al smiled brightly and took a sip of tea. “I don’t really think we looked all that much alike. But . . . ,” he took another bite of the stew, “everywhere I go, people think I’m Ed . . . at least until they get a good look at me.”

Roy smiled at his cheerful companion’s tales. He murmured, “Well . . . you dress like Edward did. And . . . you hold yourself the way he did.” He paused to chew a bit of bread before adding, “I’ve heard that you are as skilled at alchemy, as well.” He dropped his gaze to dip his bread into his bowl. “That shouldn’t surprise me. You passed the written alchemy exam just like Edward did.”

“Did I?” Al’s eyes shown over his smile, then he shook his head. “I wish I could remember!” With that, he turned his attention back to the meal before him.

The rest of the meal passed in quiet conversation. By the time the few dishes had been washed and put away, the night was deep outside the small grimy windows. Wiping his hands on the thin, ragged towel, hanging it up as he turned back toward the room, Roy began to unbutton his shirt. He had already doffed his uniform jacket. Alphonse was looking through the sparse collection of books over the mantle. Roy paused a moment, considering the boy, before he pulled his shirttails free from the blue woolen pants. Beneath his shirt, he wore ribbed thermal material that clung to his flesh like a second skin to lock in his body heat. As he stepped to the tiny corner closet to hang up the shirt, he murmured, “You didn’t bring anything to sleep in, either, did you?”

The bright-eyed youth turned his gaze upon him. “Um . . . no. . . . I guess I just figured I’d sleep in my clothes,” he replied and shrugged. He gave a lop-sided smile. “It’s what I usually do, anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” Roy murmured, then crossed the room to pull on his great coat. Turning to face Al, he added, “The privy is out back.” Grabbing a small lantern, he added, “If you have to go out in the snow, your clothes will be wet before you get back.” He eyed the fire, which was already beginning to die down. “You’ll be cold if you get wet.” Then he ducked out of the door, pulling it firmly closed behind him.

Alphonse took in the bed, which, although technically full-sized, seemed rather narrow. He faced the fire again thoughtfully. He had been told that he had always been the more practical Elric brother. But then, he supposed when he was bonded to a suit of armor, he would never really have had to worry about where he would sleep or if he would be cold. And now, he simply didn’t think about such things. Maybe he was more like Edward than he had realized.

Roy returned shortly, the cold wind slicing through the room when he slipped back through the door. He hadn’t bothered with a hat, and his hair was quickly saturated with the melting snow as Roy shook out his great coat before replacing it on the hook. Neither said a word as Roy crossed to the crate by the fire and pulled off his boots. “Um . . . what do you suggest . . . uh, Roy?”

The older man stood his boots by the hearth, then looked up at him. “About what, Al?”

“Uh . . . about dressing for bed.”

“You can borrow some of my thermals if you like.” Roy surveyed him critically. “They shouldn’t be too terribly large on you. After all, they stretch.” With that, he stood and crossed back to the closet. Standing with his back to Al, he unfastened his woolen uniform trousers and slid them down, stepping out of them, revealing the remaining portion of the one-piece underwear.

Suddenly, Al blushed and turned away to pull his cloak from the hook, grateful that the older man hadn’t seen him. “All right. Uh . . . well, I’ll be right back.” He hurriedly pulled the cloak around him and grabbed the same lantern before he was out the door.

Meanwhile, Roy extracted another thermal suit from his foot locker, along with two pairs of thick woolen socks. He sat on the bed, laying the articles beside him, and pulled off the socks he had been wearing. Mechanically, he pulled on a clean pair and rose to discard the used ones in a canvas bag in the bottom of the closet.

When the door opened again, all Roy could see was the snowy red cloak, held together at the neck by a white glove, black boots and pants all but coated in hoar. He shivered as the invasive wind hit him, but soon the door was secured again and Al threw back the hood, shivering. “You-you’re right! Brrrr! I . . . I had no idea it got that much colder at night.” He shook off the cloak and replaced it on the hook. Then he clapped his gloved hands together and pressed them against his thighs. With a blue alchemic flash, his clothes were free of ice and snow and completely dry.

Roy smiled to himself. It had been years since he had used alchemy. He just couldn’t bring himself to try it again. He had forgotten that he could have used it to dry his clothing. Of course, outside, his gloves would have quickly gotten far too wet to spark, anyway. He turned away when he realized the youth had caught him staring. “Perhaps you don’t need to worry about getting wet and cold after all,” he murmured.

Alphonse was pulling his hair free from the small leather tie. “No . . . I think you’re right. I’ll feel better if I undress. Besides . . . that bed is small. You probably don’t want to sleep against my clothes all night.”

At that comment, it was Roy’s turn to color. However, half of his face obscured by his eye patch, he did not think Alphonse would notice. He said nothing but held out the thermal piece and the socks. Al took them in one hand, unfastening his black jacket with the other. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Roy mumbled, then turned his back to the youth, spreading back the heavy, thick layers of bedding on the mattress. He stabbed at the dying fire one last time with the poker, pointedly ignoring the boy who was stripping behind him. As if having to find something to break the silence, he murmured, “I usually let the fire die out during the night. But . . . I’ll stoke it again if you want.”

“No . . . that’s fine with me,” the boy answered brightly amidst the rustle of clothing. He sat to Roy’s side and pulled off his boots before rising again to finish his task. “I really am sorry about being such an inconvenience to you, Roy. I . . . I guess I just didn’t think about what staying the night would entail.”

Roy hung the poker up again, but remained squatting by the glowing embers. “You aren’t an inconvenience, Al. I . . . I haven’t had guests in a very long time. You’ll have to forgive me for being so ill-prepared.” He rose slowly, still not looking at the boy. Instead, he slipped under the covers and pressed himself against the wall, his back to the room.

After a moment, he felt the covers lift and the bed sink. He could feel the boy shivering, knees brushing against his back as he curled himself into a tight ball. After a moment, Roy murmured, “Are you still cold?”

“Uh . . . yeah. But . . . it’s getting better,” Alphonse mumbled through chattering teeth.

After another moment, Roy shifted to face him, most of his face obscured by the eye patch and his somewhat shaggy black hair that had dried before the fire. The youth was still shivering. Hesitating just a moment, Roy reached out to touch Alphonse’s shoulder. “Scoot closer. You’ll be warmer that way.”

He waited just a beat before he snuggled into the older man’s arm, letting his knees drop a bit to get closer. Roy rested his cheek against Alphonse’s hair and sighed softly. Al felt an arm slide beneath his neck and around his back. This really was a lot warmer. Suddenly, he felt drowsy, his body beginning to relax with the welcome heat.

Soon, the boy was snoring lightly, his breathing deep and regular against Roy’s collarbone. Absently, Roy slid his fingers through the long, silky hair. He was still wide awake, but his mind was not so much on the youth in his arms. Instead, it was far away, wandering back in time to a night when Edward had fallen asleep in his arms, drooling against his bare flesh. With a sigh, Roy whispered, “We miss you, Fullmetal . . . wherever you are.”

Stolen from loreamara

Mon, 21 Aug 2006 03:01:27 GMT

"The first five people to comment on this entry get free from me one drabble of one pairing/situation in a fandom I know. Oh, and you gotta do this for five other people too. If you do this, you must post this in your journal and do 5 drabbles for other people! Until I see you've posted this in your own journal I won't be posting your drabble. Simple? Okay, let's begin."

1. momoiro_usagi AlxRoy
2.
3.
4.
5.

This is probably the safest meme I've ever done. --wry smile-- Very few people on my f-list even know of fandoms, and most of you who do have already posted this. I just wanted to see loreamara write more of her splendid work. I doubt very seriously I'll have to do any writing at all. But the catch was just to post this. Nothing was said about having to have it answered.

And to make it fair, I'm not friends-locking this entry.

FMA Fan Fic "The Hazards of Smoking"

Fri, 21 Jul 2006 22:53:44 GMT

Fictions: THE HAZARDS OF SMOKING
Author: enigmaroolz
Pairing: RoyxHavocxunknown
Genre: Humor and Smut
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: No spoilers, but general Havoc-abuse (forgive me!)
Summary: "It had been so long since Lt. Jean Havoc had gotten a piece, he had all but forgotten what it was like."
Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own FMA. Nor do I make any money from this. Blah, blah, blah.

(Originally written for the Red Flamel Fanfiction Contest)

“The Hazards of Smoking”

It had been so long since Lt. Jean Havoc had gotten a piece, he had all but forgotten what it was like. Being stationed at Eastern Command under Col. Roy Mustang, the ultimate womanizer, had proven a far bigger burden than he had originally anticipated. It seemed that every woman who showed the least bit of interest in him ended up in Col. Mustang’s bed.

Then, of course, there was that disastrous encounter with Maj. Louis Alex Armstrong’s sister. The debris was still smouldering from that crash and burn.

So it was that most Saturday nights found Havoc jerking off to one of Lt. Breda’s girly magazines, wishing he had something more substantial than his hand for a companion. Leaving the bar alone once again, it seemed that tonight was going to be no different. Little did he know that fate had other plans.

If only he had realized (but, really, how could he have known?), he would have walked a few blocks before he shook his cigarette from its pack and flipped it into his mouth. Instead, stepping into the crisp evening air, he reached for his familiar friend, consoling himself with the assurance that he at least had something to wrap his lips around.

As he withdrew the lighter to fire it up, a young woman emerged from the shadows: a gorgeous brunette with exceptionally large breasts, accentuated by the tight bodice of her pale blue dress. She was apparently in a hurry and, distracted, ran right into him, knocking the ignited lighter from his hand and into her lacquered hair, which immediately burst into glorious flame.

She began screaming as Jean strove to beat out the flames with his hands, apologizing between a repeated mantra of “Oh shit!” The screams drew the attention of the soldiers and other patrons of the bar, who came running to the damsel’s aid.

“Whadaya think yer doin’?” “Gerroff her, ya brute!” “How disgraceful! Leave it to the military to beat up an unarmed woman!” Jean soon found himself forcibly dragged off her and into the alley by the bar. Before he could explain, the largest of the would-be rescuers punched him hard, right in the solar plexus, bending him double and rendering him far too breathless to speak (even if anyone had cared to listen). A few more punches, and he went down for the count.

*****

When Jean came to, his first thought was that there didn’t seem to be an inch of his body that didn’t hurt. He blinked his eyes and tried to remember exactly where he was. Wherever he was, it certainly smelled heavenly. As his gaze came into focus, he found that he was lying in a bedroom that looked like it was decorated with a Pepto-Bismol bomb and a dusting of lace. “Well, this certainly isn’t the barracks,” he murmured, then winced as his hand went to the cracked ribs under his bare chest. It was then that he realized that he was lying totally naked beneath a thin cotton sheet.

“Oooo! Pooky Bear! You’re awake!” a woman’s voice answered.

His eyes sought the source of the voice. His head had tried to follow, as well, but the swollen neck and jaw kept him from turning it very far. I’ve died and gone to heaven! was his first thought. The large-breasted brunette bent over him with a cold wet rag, daubing his chin. Her hair was freshly washed and still wet, drops from the little tendrils hitting his face and chest. “Um . . . .” He wanted to ask, “Who are you?” Instead, he asked, “Where am I?”

“Oh, Pooky Bear, I had those sweet young soldiers bring you to my house after I explained to them that you hadn’t really been trying to assault me. Fortunately, someone threw his jacket over my hair, so it didn’t get burned too badly. Besides, I needed a haircut. But I couldn’t very well leave you in the alley, and it was closer to my house than it was for them to take you back to the military headquarters. You’re a second lieutenant, aren’t you? I could tell by the insignia on your jacket. My father used to be in the military, but he was killed in the war. We still have all his medals and everything.”

She continued to twitter non-stop as she re-wet the rag and tenderly pressed it to the bruises under his eye. Jean couldn’t help but notice how her dressing gown gaped open as she bent over him. It seemed that she had nothing on beneath it since her cleavage was revealed from top to navel, those gorgeously firm orbs tantalizingly half-exposed. As she droned on, he dropped his eyes lower, wondering if he could detect some sort of waistband, tilting his head just slightly to gain a different perspective of the matter.

“ . . . don’t you think, Pooky Bear?” She stopped abruptly, and he jerked his eyes up to meet hers. It was obvious that she was waiting for his answer.

“Uh . . . yeah. Yeah . . . sure, I do.” He had no idea what he was agreeing to, but it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

Her face immediately brightened and she jumped up excitedly. “Oh good! That’s wonderful! I’ll be right back, Pooky Bear! You won’t be disappointed!” She turned on her heel and bounced out of the room.

Again, he rubbed at his sore ribs and scanned the room. Only vaguely did he wonder how he had gotten undressed. He was certain that, if he didn’t hurt so badly, the mere circumstances of lying naked in a beautiful woman’s bed would have caused the sheet to tent in an embarrassingly obvious manner.

However, things didn’t start getting truly strange until his angel returned. “Here he is!” she sang. To Jean’s disbelief, she was leading none other than his blindfolded commanding officer by the hand. Col. Roy Mustang was not only in a similar state of undress, but as he had no bruises or cracked ribs to deter his arousal, it stood obediently at military attention. “Now Boo-Boo, you promised me. I want to see you fuck him, okay? And then you have to let him fuck you.”

Lt. Jean Havoc blinked again. “Uh . . . ,” but he was unwilling to say anything more, lest his voice give away his identity.

“Francesca! You wicked girl!” Roy crooned. “Don’t tell me that you’ve actually found someone who has agreed to this!”

“Well, I did. And he says he’s dying to be fucked by you!” Her voice took on a pout, as did her lips as she turned to Jean. “Didn’t you, Pooky Bear?”

“Uh . . . .” Again, though the sight of Roy’s erection made Jean’s heart feel as though it would leap out of his chest in dread, he simply didn’t have the presence of mind to reveal his identity to the man whose orders he obeyed day in and day out.

Before he could focus his mind upon anything that resembled a plan of action, Francesca’s full, pouty lips were on his, her tongue pressing past them to tease at his front teeth. When her hand reached down to stroke the growing lump under the sheet, it was as if she had performed some sort of alchemy of her own. Of course he was dying to be fucked by Roy Mustang. Of course he would turn around and fuck him in turn. What better way to spend an evening? Pain? What pain? Oh well, what’s a little pain between friends? Besides, he was her Pooky Bear, right? By the time Francesca withdrew from her kiss and her petting, he would have submitted to being fucked by a tank if she had suggested it.

“Now turn over so I can see how Boo-Boo fucks his friend.” She nudged Jean to his stomach and pulled Roy over to the bed, putting his hand on Jean’s sheeted butt. “Com’on, Boo-Boo. I wanna see!”

Roy chuckled as he climbed on the bed, positioning himself on his knees between Jean’s thighs. “All right, Francesca. Just for you.” Jean shivered as Roy tugged at the sheet to expose his backside. “I’ll need some lubricant, darlin’, if you want to see how I treat my friend . . . as opposed to how I would treat my enemy.” Havoc let out a gasp and a stifled groan as he felt Roy’s finger enter him and deftly pull him up to his knees. He buried his face in the pillow so that his voice would be muffled, and he clutched at his bruised ribs again.

Now it wasn’t as though he’d never been fingered there before. After all, being violated like this was pretty much routine in the military’s annual physicals. However, he’d never had anything bigger than a finger shoved up his ass, and when Roy pressed two lubed fingers past his tight muscle, he began to have second thoughts about the whole matter.

When the third lubed finger began to stretch him painfully, and he raised up to protest, Francesca crawled up on the bed in front of him, her legs spread on either side of his face. Okay . . . so . . . maybe this won’t be so bad after all, he thought, as her fingers laced through his hair to gently guide his mouth to her own private honey hole. Maybe if I just concentrate on this . . . mmmmm . . . yessssss . . . .

But when Roy’s cock found its mark, Jean jerked up with such force and speed, one would never have guessed that he had just suffered a severe beating. His scream was muffled in Francesca’s ample bosom, her hands holding his head in a vice-like grip. As he bucked and writhed, Roy’s low chuckle rumbled to his ears, “Well, here’s a wild one! Francesca, you naughty girl! You didn’t tell me he was a virgin! I would have been a little gentler in my approach.”

“I didn’t know things like that mattered, Boo-Boo,” the girl replied innocently, but breathlessly, pressing Jean’s head back down to her nether region. The scent of her musky sex wet in his nostrils again seemed to make everything perfectly normal and acceptable.

His tongue began to lap at her with the same rhythm Roy’s cock pistoned into him, and she likewise met the rhythm with her own rocking hips. Just like one well-oiled sex machine, Jean thought, his head growing a bit dizzy.

Francesca climaxed at least four times in this interlude. Her throbbing pussy enthralled Jean almost as much as her cum intoxicated him. However, he couldn’t help but wish that his commanding officer didn’t have such sexual stamina and prowess. His ass was becoming sore to the point of numbness. He felt an urgent need to use the bathroom, but he figured it was just part of having something that large shoved up him repeatedly. At last, he felt Roy’s grip tighten around his hips before he slammed him hard and he felt the same pulsing throb in his backside that his tongue had been experiencing.

“All right,” Roy breathed as he withdrew from Jean’s used backside, his fingers loosening their sweaty hold. “There you are . . . Francesca, my love. . . .”

“Now Boo-Boo . . . ,” she panted in reply, “now I want to see . . . how you get fucked. . . . Show me!” Her breathy, sensual voice still held the quality of a petulant child. “Do him, Pooky Bear!” she commanded Jean. “I wanna see what Boo-Boo looks like when he takes it us the ass!”

Still not wanting his identity revealed, especially now, Jean bit his lip to stifle the groan as he clambered off the bed, holding his side. His knees were incredibly weak, and he found it extremely difficult to straighten his frame as he stood by the bed and Mustang crawled forward to take his place in the heaven between those celestial thighs.

The junior officer located the lubricant and squeezed a fair amount into his palm. He looked from the gelatinous mass to the exposed rosebud before him and had to swallow down a lump in his throat. He knew that if he proceeded from here, he would never be able to look his commanding officer in the eye again. And yet, he also knew that he’d probably already passed that point anyway. “Well? . . . What are you waiting for?” Roy called back to him. “Let’s get on with it. I have duty in four hours.”

Jean almost replied with the customary, “Yes, sir!” but managed to stop himself with the first sound. Instead, he proceeded to coat three of his fingers with the slick substance in his palm before pressing them one by one into the waiting and willing Col. Roy Mustang, the famous Flame Alchemist. Jean marveled at how Roy pressed back to his touch, even with the soupy noises he was making against the already-writhing Francesca.

At last, wiping his hand first on his own cock, then on the discarded sheet, Jean climbed upon the bed again, placing his knees between Roy’s. Without another sound, he shrugged and shoved his ready cock enthusiastically past his boss’s slick muscle. “Son of a bitch!” Roy yelped. “Take it . . . just a bit easier, will ya?”

“S . . . .” He wanted to say, “Sorry!” but then remembered that he had to protect his identity. Instead, he bent forward and kissed the sweaty back by way of apology. Somehow, though, kissing his commanding officer in this tender way seemed far more bizarre than sodomizing him. So Jean straightened with a stifled groan, gripped the muscular hips, and began thrusting with a bit more care than his initial penetration.

Maybe it was because it had been so long since he’d gotten a piece. Or maybe it was the titillation of butt-fucking his commanding officer. Or perhaps it was because Roy Mustang’s ass was every bit as sweet as any pussy he’d known. For whatever reason, it didn’t take nearly as long for Jean to come as it had for Roy. In fact, Roy lifted his head and laughed aloud. “You need more practice!”

Jean colored with embarrassment as he gingerly extricated himself first from Roy, then from the bed, where Roy was continuing to munch on his past-midnight snack. Still holding his cracked ribs, Jean carefully dressed himself as quickly as he could manage it. When he left, Francesca’s moans were ringing in his ears.

*****

“Yo! Havoc!” Breda nudged him, causing Jean to moan loudly. He only thought he had hurt last night. “Yo! Duty, bud! Get up! . . . Jesus! What happened to you?”

Havoc opened one eye, the other eye almost swollen shut. “I was . . . in a fight . . . a misunderstanding,” he slurred, closing his eye again. Wonder if I could get away with calling in sick? he thought, then sighed and groaned as he forced himself to rise. “Holy shit!” He didn’t know he could hurt in so many places at once, not the least of which was his tender asshole.

“Well . . . if you didn’t get the worst of it, I’d hate to see the other guy,” Breda commented. “That’s some shiner you got there. Mustang isn’t going to be too happy with you, you know.”

Jean colored immediately at the mention of the name. “Uh . . . no, I guess not,” he mumbled as he shuffled off to the bathroom.

Breda cajoled one of the nurses into giving him a roll of bandaging tape. Jean was grateful for his help in taping up his sore ribs and then helping him into his uniform. As Breda pushed on the last boot, he shook his head. “You still look like your face met up with a brick wall last night, buddy. Even if Hawkeye doesn’t ask questions, you know Mustang will want to know what happened . . . especially if it’s anything he might have to do paperwork on.”

He allowed Breda to pull him to his feet. “Um, well . . . I don’t think so,” he mumbled and reached for his cigarettes. To his dismay, they weren’t there. He felt in the pockets of the uniform he had discarded just a few hours before: no cigarettes. He glanced around for them, then frowned. “Hey, Breda . . . would you look under my bunk and see if you can find my smokes?” But to no avail. Neither his cigarettes nor his lighter were anywhere to be found. Grumbling, he finally followed his friend out the door to report for duty.

*****

Lt. Riza Hawkeye merely looked at him as he gingerly took his seat at the desk facing hers. When he said nothing by way of explanation, she murmured, “Is there any point in asking what happened to your face?”

He smiled with the part of his face not swollen and replied, “I’m out of cigarettes.”

She cocked an eyebrow, but asked nothing further, regarding him a moment or two longer before returning her attention to the paperwork in her hands.

Fifteen minutes later, Col. Mustang strode through the door; and the two lieutenants rose to salute him, according to protocol. Hawkeye snapped to attention in good military form, whereas Havoc assumed a straight posture with difficulty. “As you were,” the colonel murmured, not even bothering to look at them as he sat at his desk.

“Uh . . . I think I’ll . . . get a cup of coffee,” Jean murmured, turning away from the senior officer and taking careful strides to the door.

Lt. Hawkeye glanced up at him, then cut her gaze to the colonel before returning to her paperwork. “Havoc . . . bring me one, too, if you don’t mind.

Although he hardly felt up to walking down the hall for coffee, Hawkeye had just obligated him. Jean Havoc had no idea how he was going to face his superior, how he was going to explain his condition to the man he had anonymously fucked just hours ago. As much as he would have loved to tease the man about allowing a woman to call him “Boo-Boo,” the thought of admitting his participation in the encounter as “Pooky Bear” was nothing less than mortifying to him.

He took his time as he made his way to the coffee machine and back, carrying the two cups. When he entered and set Riza’s cup, down, Mustang finally glanced up to see Jean’s condition. The colonel arched his eyebrows and rumbled, “Care to explain, Lt. Havoc?”

“Um . . . well . . . .”

Just then, Maj. Armstrong strode through the door. “Col. Mustang, your presence is requested at Investigations.” The burly major looked from Roy to Riza, then Jean. “Lt. Hawkeye and Lt. Havoc, you two will accompany him with sidearms.” He stopped short at the sight of Jean’s swollen, discolored eye and jaw. “Lt. Havoc, are you well?”

But Jean had welcomed the excuse to postpone his explanation to his commanding officer, having turned back to his desk to retrieve his gun. “I’m fine. Just . . . uh . . . out of cigarettes.”

“What’s all this about?” Roy demanded, though he rose and came around his desk.

Maj. Armstrong opened the door for him. “I’m sorry, colonel, but it seems that some civilian is reporting that one of our men set fire to a woman last night outside a bar. They are requesting that you appear in the line-up for a positive I.D.” Neither of the men were looking at Jean, whose one good eye had widened considerably.

“Since when have I been known to set fire to women outside of bars?” Roy demanded as he brushed past the massive major and strode purposefully down the hall, his irritation clicking with every step. Maj. Armstrong, Lt. Hawkeye, and Lt. Havoc followed in his wake, Havoc having a bit of difficulty keeping up.

*****

“No, no! That’s not him!” the man from the bar said impatiently. “I told you! He had brown hair, not black!”

“See?” Roy folded his arms and stared defiantly at Lt. Col. Maes Hughes, who gave a lop-sided smile and shrugged. “I told you this was ridiculous!”

“Well, we had to . . . .”

“That’s him! That’s him! Right there!” the man pointed excitedly, having just caught sight of the side of Jean’s face that still resembled him.

Roy started, and he and every other officer and soldier present turned their gaze upon Havoc who had raised his hands in protest. “No! You don’t understand! I . . . .”

“Yes, it was! It was you! I’m glad somebody gave you what you deserve! But I still wanted to report you! You military dogs think you can just walk all over us civilians. You think you can just do whatever you want and get away with it scot-free, don’t you? You . . . ,” but at that point, Maj. Armstrong stepped in front of the irate gentleman, blocking Havoc from his view.

“I think you should calm down sir. Take a deep breath,” Maj. Armstrong commanded in his rumbling voice. “It is a calming technique handed down the Armstrong line for generations. Here, let me help you,” he murmured, reaching out for the man, who immediately squealed in fright and literally ran out the door.

All other eyes were on Lt. Jean Havoc, who had begun to sweat. Jean pulled at his collar and glanced up to Lt. Col. Hughes while studiously avoiding Roy Mustang’s hard eyes. “Uh, I can . . . uh . . . I can explain, sir.”

“Well? We’re waiting. I’m dying to know what this is all about,” Hughes replied.

“That makes two of us,” Roy murmured ominously.

Jean related his story about being bumped and dropping the lighter, how the whole thing had been a silly misunderstanding and an accident.

“Can the young lady confirm this?” Hughes asked when he ended his tale.

“Uh . . . .” Jean gave Roy just the merest glance and immediately reddened before quickly returning his gaze to the head of Investigations. “I suppose so.”

“Well, let’s go,” Hughes replied with his characteristic enthusiasm. “By the way, have you seen the latest photo of my Elysia? She’s just dripping with cuteness!” Jean’s heart dropped to his knees. This was it. As soon as Roy laid eyes on Francesca, he would know exactly who the mystery man in their bed was last night. With a deep sigh, Havoc hung his head and led the way.

Standing at the door, flanked by Lt. Col. Hughes and Maj. Armstrong, Jean hardly noticed that Col. Mustang was hanging back and had actually donned his uniform cap. The rap on the door was answered by a man every bit as large as Maj. Armstrong. “Whuddaya want?” he growled.

So this is what Papa Bear looks like, Jean thought as he took an involuntary gulp.

“Is . . . ?”

Lt. Col. Hughes looked questioningly at Havoc, who stole a glance back at Mustang before he mumbled “Francesca.”

“ . . . Francesca home?” Hughes finished the query, meeting the mammoth’s fierce gaze innocently.

The brute actually growled before yelling, “Francesca . . . you have visitors.”

“What is it, Pumpkin?” the woman’s lyrical voice called as she appeared beside him. She took one look at Havoc and pointed, “I never saw that man before in my life! I swear!”

The man growled again, looking from the woman back to Havoc before he suddenly swung back and jabbed his massive fist into Havoc’s nose. “So you’re the one who’s been messing with my wife! So help me god, I’m gonna pulverize you! Your own mother won’t recognize you when I get through with you!” He would probably have made good on his threat right then and there, had Maj. Armstrong not intervened.

Meanwhile, Havoc was once again bent double, blood dripping from his face. “He . . . he broke my nose! Son of a . . . !” Lt. Col. Hughes had pulled out a handkerchief to hand him while Maj. Armstrong continued to argue with the irate husband.

Out of the blue, Col. Mustang spoke up. “This man could not possibly have been with your wife last night. Indeed, there is nothing whatsoever about that woman that would remotely have attracted him or caught his interest.”

At once, the commotion stopped. All eyes turned to Roy. Francesca’s expression was suddenly quite rabid. “What makes you say that?!?” the affronted husband demanded. Even Jean in his misery tuned his ears to hear the colonel’s explanation.

“I know for a fact that Lt. Havoc is gay.”

“What!?!?” Havoc’s, Armstrong’s, and Hughes’ voices chorused. Havoc straightened up to look at Mustang, his eyes as wide as his condition permitted.

Roy narrowed his eyes shrewdly, locking them with Jean’s. “I’m sorry, Lt. Havoc. I know you’ve wanted this kept secret, and understandably so. However, I think the fallout from finally coming out of the closet will be far less harmful to you than leaving this poor gentleman under the impression that you made lascivious advances toward his wife.”

“How do you know he’s gay?” the irate giant demanded, still snorting like a bull with his fists still clenched.

“I suggest that Lt. Havoc be examined by a doctor, who would be able to confirm or deny the fact that his most recent sexual encounter was with a male,” Roy replied. “If you truly don’t trust your wife, perhaps she would consent to an exam herself.”

“W-what?!?” Havoc sputtered again. “But . . . I . . . .”

“Is there a problem with submitting to a physical, Lt. Havoc?” Hughes queried, cutting narrow eyes to Roy before returning his gaze to Jean. “To tell you the truth, you probably need to get that nose looked at while you’re there.”

“Uh . . . well . . . uh . . . ,” Havoc stammered, then sighed, closing his eyes, still holding the handkerchief to his bloody nose. “No . . . I’ll go.” Jean sighed heavily. I could really use a cigarette right now, he thought.

As the entourage began to leave, Jean heard a sharp slap and glanced up just in time to see a furious Francesca turning her back on Roy, whose fingers had risen to the red hand-print on his cheek. However, he missed the withering glare that Lt. Col. Hughes was giving his friend.

*****

“Ach! Look at you! Where did you get all these bruises?” the doctor exclaimed as Jean removed his uniform, piece by piece. His nose had finally stopped bleeding, but it was already twice its normal size. In addition to his already swollen eye, now both eyes had dark bruising beneath them.

“Long story, doc,” Havoc murmured, groaning as he attempted to pull his t-shirt over his head.

“Doctor, we need you to examine this man and verify any sexual activity he may have had in the last 24 hours,” Hughes explained, still surreptitiously eyeing Roy from time to time. “Also, would you take a look at his injuries? This man may need medical attention.”

“Sure, sure. Lt. Havoc, I’ll need you to strip down completely. Here is a gown you may put on when you are ready,” the doctor explained, handing him the thinnest and shortest hospital gown Jean had ever remembered seeing.

As Jean continued to strip with slow self-consciousness, Hughes and the doctor chatted while Mustang signed a clipboard Hawkeye had presented him before she disappeared again. Armstrong was silent, though Jean could have sworn his impassive expression had something of a glower about it. He slipped his arms into the gown’s sleeves. Then, with another gulp, he dropped his trousers and boxers, having already pulled off everything else. At that point, he just stood there awkwardly, waiting what would happen next, wishing like hell that he had a cigarette.

The doctor finally looked up from his conversation and instructed the lieutenant to climb up on the examination table. Havoc did so with some difficulty, holding his still-taped ribs. “What is this?” the doctor asked as he pulled back the gown and tapped at the bandages.

“Uh . . . I think I might have broken something,” Havoc replied.

“Hmmmmm.” The doctor took a pair of scissors and carefully cut the tape down his left side. “Well, then, let’s take a look, shall we?” Without further warning, he ripped off the tape, jerking out every chest hair beneath it.

“Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” Havoc bent forward, his bruised flesh suddenly on fire, his hand reaching up to rub at the stinging. “Damn! You could have warned me or something!”

But the doctor wasn’t listening. Instead, he was making notes of the contusions, glancing from Havoc’s chest to his chart as he wrote. When he put the chart aside, he stepped up to palpate the discolored blotch. “Hmmmmm. . . . Yes . . . yes . . . it seems that you have broken three of your ribs, lieutenant. . . . Hmmmmm.” The doctor turned to make more notes on the chart. Again returning his attention to the patient, he murmured, “What other bruises do you have?” lifting the gown to reveal the rest of his body so completely, Havoc wondered why he’d even bothered with giving him a gown.

Soon the doctor was pushing and prodding this place and that on his torso, making humming noises and tongue-clicks alternately. He shown a penlight in each of the blue eyes, opening the lids manually to see them fully. Finally, his hands grasped the swollen face, thumbs pulling down the lower eyelids to evaluate the damage. Without warning, the doctor’s thumbs caught his tender nose like a vice and twisted it roughly, eliciting a scream of pain from the wounded patient and causing his eyes to water. Havoc brought his hands up to his face with loud curses as the doctor turned back to mark the chart.

“Well, you had quite the evening last night, lieutenant. Though it appears that the only breaks are your ribs and your nose. You’re lucky.” The doctor glanced back at Havoc with a stern look. “You need to be more careful.” But Jean was still in too much pain from having his nose reset to protest that his condition hadn’t been a matter of his lack of care.

“All right, now let’s see just how much fun you had last night, lieutenant. Was it worth it, son?” Before Havoc could register the words, the doctor had grabbed his cock, which was thankfully flaccid.

“What . . . what are you doing?” Still holding his sore nose, Jean sat there, mortified. Everyone in the room suddenly seemed to be watching him as the doctor fondled him.

“Just taking a microscopic sample,” the doctor replied before he rubbed what felt very much like sandpaper right across the sensitive head of his manhood, as well as beneath the foreskin.

“Son of a bitch!” Havoc yelped, his hands now clutching protectively at his groin. But again, the doctor ignored his outburst, merely instructing him to lie now on his stomach. He gulped yet again, shooting one glance at Roy before obeying reluctantly. Roy, however, was apparently distracted by his fingernails. As the underling rolled gingerly to his stomach, he mentally noted that Lt. Col. Hughes was uncharacteristically glaring at Roy like an angry hawk.

Burying his face in his arms, dreading what was bound to happen next, Jean tried valiantly to imagine himself anywhere but here, doing anything but what he was doing, preferably with a lit cigarette in his mouth. He felt his cheeks being parted and heard the doctor clicking his tongue again. Jean swallowed hard, certain that his face was now so brilliantly red that even the bruises would scarcely be noticeable. He yelped as some cold instrument was inserted past his raw, tender muscle, but he didn’t dare look up.

When the doctor had finally finished with the thorough humiliation, the patient was told he could sit up now. Jean, however, much preferred the idea of crawling beneath the worn flooring and oozing away. As such, he didn’t immediately move.

“Well, doctor?” Hughes queried.

“This officer has engaged in sexual activity with at least one man and possibly several. He obviously likes to play rough.” Havoc heard the doctor sigh in the midst of the explanation. “However, I can definitively say that there was no woman involved.” The doctor dropped his voice a bit. “A woman could not have made those injuries.”

Without warning, Havoc was lifted from the table by the scruff of the neck. “How dare you!” Maj. Armstrong started shaking him like a rag doll. “How dare you presume to date my sister when your tastes lie elsewhere!” All Jean could do was whimper, as he hurt far too much to make intelligible speech, being shaken so violently.

“Major!” Col. Mustang shouted and rushed forward to rescue his unfortunate underling. “Major! I believe you have it wrong! It was your sister’s rejection of the poor lieutenant that caused him to seek the companionship of his own gender! She was the one who pushed him into the arms of another man! Why do you think he has not had a date in all these months?”

At that, the hulking but sensitive major burst into tears and, worse, scooped Jean into his bear-like embrace. “Oh lieutenant! I didn’t know! I’m so very sorry! Can you ever forgive me? Can you ever forgive my sister for rejecting you? You’ve been wronged by the Armstrong line, and . . . and I fully intend to make it up to you!” As Armstrong continued to sob, Havoc felt another couple of cracks around his rib cage. At this point, he was in too much pain even to attempt a response.

When the major finally released Jean, he laid him tenderly back onto the examining table and smoothed back the spiky sandy hair. “I shall take you out to dinner next Saturday,” he rumbled, then bent low to murmur in his ear, “I promise to make up to you the rejection you suffered at my sister’s hand,” then flicked his tongue over Jean’s ear. “Besides . . . I like to play rough, as well,” he added before straightening quickly and dismissing himself from the room.

Jean lay there in a somewhat of a horrified stupor, induced by having just been both crushed and propositioned by the enormous officer. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught another resounding slap, this time delivered to Roy Mustang by Lt. Col. Hughes. “How did you know he was gay? And how did you know what he’d been doing last night?”

Rubbing his face, Roy just stared as the chief investigator strode out of the room. There was an awkward silence before the doctor cleared his throat.

“Well, I’d really like to keep Lt. Havoc overnight for observation, if you don’t mind, colonel. I’ll tape his ribs properly, as well as treat his other contusions.”

“Fine, fine,” Roy murmured, then gestured dismissively as the doctor excused himself, leaving Roy and Jean alone together. Roy was still rubbing his face, staring at the door through which Maes had exited. Jean folded his arms over his eyes so he wouldn’t have to meet Roy’s gaze.

At length, he heard his commanding officer approach. “Want a smoke, Pooky Bear?” Jean peeked out from under his arms to see Roy offering him the pack of cigarettes he had lost the previous night, as well as his lighter. Roy smirked characteristically, though the red hand print across his cheek gave the whole picture a surreal feel. “You left these at Francesca’s last night.”

Jean smiled feebly as he took a cigarette and flipped it into his mouth, then cupped his hand as Roy flicked the lighter for him. Drawing as deeply as his wounded rib cage allowed, Jean closed his eyes and lay back again. “Thanks, Boo-Boo.” He took another long drag and let it out slowly before murmuring, “What I want to know is why I get punched while you get slapped.”

“I outrank you,” Roy offered enigmatically. Jean said nothing as he took another deep, satisfying drag from his long lost cigarette. “Well, look on the bright side, Havoc. At least you have a date Saturday night.”

Shamelessly stolen from come

Fri, 16 Jun 2006 12:24:28 GMT

Joke of the day:

Rumsfeld is reporting to the President and the Cabinet.

He says, "Three Brazilian soldiers were killed today in Iraq."

The President says, "Oh, my God!" as he buries his head in his hands.

The entire Cabinet is stunned. Usually George Bush shows no reaction
whatsoever to these reports.

Just then, Bush looks up and says, "How many is a brazilian??"

Before I forget . . .

Wed, 14 Jun 2006 06:35:05 GMT

I have HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY wishes to momoiro_usagi and loreamara (who won't see this at all, I'm sure).

I LOVE you kiddos!

The Exam FMA Fan-Fic

Tue, 30 May 2006 07:55:47 GMT

The Exam.
NC-17 (Non-con, underage, MM)
2363
RoyxEd. Fullmetal Alchemist.
This really isn't a spoiler for anything other than Edward's becoming a State Alchemist.

It was one of the military’s dirty little secrets. Actually, like so many other aspects of military life, it wasn’t all that secret within the ranks. Only the outsiders had no earthly idea. Of course, outsiders didn’t understand a great many aspects of military life. Like being ordered to kill a pair of benevolent doctors for no apparent reason.

Lt. Col. Roy Mustang frowned deeply as he regarded the passing grades on the Alchemist Exam, leaning his jaw on his fist. “Is there something wrong, sir?” Lt. Hawkeye’s voice broke through Roy’s reverie.

“I never imagined that the younger one would pass it, too,” he murmured, and threw the test results on his desk.

“Is that a problem, sir?”

Roy made no reply; he merely sighed deeply. He knew that Edward’s sheer stubbornness and determination would steel him for what was to come, even though he was only 12 years old. He had already endured more than most grown men. Didn’t his automail prove that he could withstand even unbearable pain? However, not only was Alphonse’s psyche far too innocent for what was next, his mortal secret would inevitably be revealed. He had no body to abuse.

A smirk crossed Roy’s lips at the irony. Alphonse would have made the perfect prisoner of war, for what could the enemy do to him? And yet, that very invulnerability would keep his goal of becoming a State Alchemist forever out of reach. The military didn’t want anyone it couldn’t own.

There was nothing more to be done but to inform Alphonse that he could not continue. Understandably, the boy was outraged. Roy knew it was unfair, but a deeper part of him was grateful that Al, at least, would be spared what Ed would have to endure. In the end, it was Ed who convinced him. “You have to do what they say . . . even hurt people . . . for some good you don’t understand. It means you’re a dog of the State, with a leash around your neck.”

Though Roy’s expression remained impassive, he thought, You have no idea. . . . But you will.

Walking back to his office, hands clasped behind his back and eyes on the pavement before him, Roy’s mind drifted back to his own “Interview and Physical Exam.” If it had not been for his relationship with Maes Hughes, Roy would have cracked. All officers endured the process, but speaking of it – to anyone – was absolutely forbidden. Indeed, he had not even conversed of it with Maes, though their eyes met with understanding afterward.

The Fuhrer wanted, no, demanded absolute allegiance. The process made it explicitly clear that he was in charge, and that he owned you – lock, stock and barrel, down to the very last ammunition casing in the chamber of your soul. Therefore, every officer, both male and female, was required to endure it. It was geared to make a lasting impression. It certainly had made one on Roy.

He had been given a code to memorize. Then, he was stripped and blindfolded, his hands bound behind him. First, he was thoroughly beaten, with the reassurances that all he need do was to speak the code to make it stop. But then, he was sexually assaulted by every man on the committee, starting with Fuhrer King Bradley himself. Even worse than Bradley had been Brig. Gen. Basque Gran, who was not only particularly brutal, but also abnormally well-endowed.

Roy had been taunted while he was roughly dry-raped, but he made no sound other than the involuntary grunts that such activity produces. Thanks to Maes, he knew how to be . . . accommodating . . . in such a situation. Even so, by the time the last colonel had his turn, Roy had required a short stay in the infirmary before he could again sit before the committee on that three-legged chair and deliver to them the code he had memorized but never uttered.

Of course, this physical abuse didn’t end with the initial “examination.” His endurance was part of his meteoric rise up the ranks at such a young age. After he earned his title of Flame Alchemist, he was called upon to provide “proof” of his “loyalty” on numerous occasions with various commanding officers, mostly Bradley himself. Fortunately for Roy, Gran’s attention was focused mainly on Kimbley. Somehow, Roy felt the two were well-suited for each other.

When he became a part of the committee, Roy generally had the choice to participate in the “physical examinations” or not. He generally declined. The process was one of the many aspects he would change when he became Fuhrer. However, there were times he was expected to perform. Lt. Hawkeye, Lt. Havoc, Lt. Breda, and Warrant Officer Falman had been “examined” by him. Their devotion to him would seem to validate Bradley’s method. However, Roy knew that their devotion was because Roy had surreptitiously exercised restraint, not authority. After all, he felt the same way about Dr. Tim Marcoh, who actually used his alchemy to relieve a bit of Roy’s suffering at the time of his exam.

And now it would be Edward’s turn. A 12-year-old. Surely Bradley wouldn’t rape a 12-year-old, would he? As many times as Roy had witnessed the process, he still could not imagine Bradley sodomizing the diminutive Edward. After all, how many state secrets would Edward be responsible to know? Yet, Roy knew just how ruthless Fuhrer King Bradley could be. Indeed, there was very little he would venture to put past their absolute monarch, whose facade consisted of a kind smile and a fatherly voice.

The fateful day arrived, and Roy took his place as the lowest ranking officer on the committee, standing to the far right of Gran, Bradley, Gen. Hakuro, and a full colonel. As was expected, he remained silent while Fuhrer King Bradley conducted the questioning part of the process. Even Roy was impressed with Edward’s earnest determination; yet, the lieutenant colonel remained wary of what would happen next.

“You have been given a code, I believe,” Bradley spoke, making Roy’s shoulder muscles tense and his stomach suddenly knot up.

“Yes, sir,” the boy replied firmly.

“Are you now prepared to defend the secrecy of that code with your very life?” Roy suddenly felt his breathing go shallow as his heart began to race, though he maintained his stoic silence.

“Yes, sir,” Edward replied.

“Good. You may proceed.” Bradley sounded almost amused.

Roy’s eyes followed two soldiers who quickly came forward and roughly stripped Edward down to his bare flesh, automail glinting in the harsh lighting. Though Edward’s expression was defiant, to his credit, he said not a word. When one of the soldiers made to strike him, Edward’s left foot caught him squarely in the jaw, knocking him winding. Roy couldn’t help but smile. He knew Edward wouldn’t triumph, couldn’t possibly triumph. But at least he was going to give them a run for their money. They would pay dearly for this “examination.”

Edward took out a good dozen soldiers before he was sufficiently subdued to endure the officers' portion of the process. He was held there by no less than three soldiers, one on each side and another with his hand on the back of Edward’s neck, forcing him into position. It was already apparent to everyone there that any state secret Edward held would be far safer than with 90 percent of the military force. Anyone in his right mind would have given up by now. But then . . . the lesson of ownership would not have been learned.

“Lt. Col. Mustang,” Bradley called out, making Roy start involuntarily, though he quickly regained his stoic exterior.

“Yes, sir,” Roy answered.

“You will do the honors. Somehow, I don’t think it would be very becoming of my position to conduct the examination on a 12-year-old boy.”

“Yes, sir.” Suddenly, Roy’s throat felt abnormally tight, though he dutifully stepped forward and approached Edward, who was panting with his face to the floor. Roy had been afraid of this, but at the same time, he was grateful that he had been chosen for the task. Since Roy was the lowest ranking officer there, no one would want to “examine” any applicant after him. This meant that Edward only had to endure him and no one else. At the same time, once again, Roy was being called upon to do something utterly repugnant: he was being ordered to sodomize a 12-year-old boy. Roy’s stomach gave a lurch before he pushed that thought to the farthest recess of his mind.

Under that bright light, Roy unfastened his military uniform trousers and pushed them to his knees, stroking himself to ready himself for the “examination.” He swallowed hard, his expression completely blank as he took up his position behind Edward. Barely above a whisper, his lips not moving at all, Roy murmured, “Push me out.”

“What are you doing, you bastard?” Edward panted, straining against the soldiers who held him fast.

Loud enough for the room to hear, Roy replied, “I am convincing you to give me the code.” Still stroking himself, willing himself to obtain a healthy erection in spite of the loathsome task, he murmured again, “Push me out.” Edward made another jerking attempt to free himself as Roy set the head of his cock against the boy’s opening.

Barely breathing at all, not daring to close his eyes, Roy very discreetly snapped the fingers of the hand he was not using to guide his cock to its mark. With the barest flash, his cock was suddenly covered with beads of moisture, taken from the air by alchemy to provide the lubrication needed to make this even remotely bearable. Roy swallowed again and gritted his teeth behind tight lips. “Push me out,” he murmured again as he forced Ed to open to the invasion.

“Damn you to hell!” Edward gasped, jerking and struggling like mad to free himself. However, to Roy’s relief, Edward suddenly had caught on to what Roy had been trying to convey to him. He felt Edward’s tightness begin to slacken somewhat as he pressed forward. “You fucking bastard!” There were tears in Edward’s choked voice, but he understood what Roy was trying to do, what Roy was having to do to him. “I hate you!”

Roy said nothing in response until he gained his hilt. He paused then, and said aloud, “Give me the code.”

“Fuck you!” Edward cried out, heaving with bravely concealed sobs.

“Very well.” Roy’s calm, nonchalant voice belied the revolt that his insides were making. It was all he could do not to vomit on the spot as he began to pump Edward with as little trauma as he could possibly get away with and still satisfy the committee. Roy’s jaw was clenched, though his face remained impassive, watching Edward’s trembling back and concentrating on the scarred seam of his automail shoulder. He couldn’t think about what he was doing. He was performing his duty, nothing more and nothing less. Edward’s words to Alphonse replayed themselves in his mind. You have to do what they say . . . even hurt people . . . . It means you’re a dog of the State, with a leash around your neck.

Roy had to make a decent show of the “examination,” lest Bradley decide that he hadn’t put forth sufficient effort to obtain the code. If that occurred, not only would Bradley make sure that Roy be held accountable for it, but he would order one of the other officers to sodomize Edward, as well. That officer, in turn, would make Roy pay for being made to take his “sloppy seconds.” Keeping such thoughts in mind, Roy would occasionally ask, “Are you ready . . . to give me . . . the code?” to which Edward would make some profane, insulting reply between his loud, gasping sobs.

At last, Roy closed his eyes, summoning to himself the vision of Maes in their academy days. As he did so often in these “examinations,” he placed himself back into that day on the beach, right after he and Maes had been issued their orders. They had packed food and wine and had spent the day toasting their future between swimming, making love, and napping in the warm sun. Maes had positioned himself just like this, pressing himself back to Roy’s cock, wanting it and needing it as much as Roy had wanted and needed to give it. With a small noise in the back of his throat, Roy thrusted into his memory, his cock jerking and twitching as it gave up the last of his dreams.

When Roy opened his eyes again, Edward was panting and sobbing before him, still held fast by the three soldiers, his short braid plastered to his neck with sweat. The lieutenant colonel’s eyes swept up to the shadows from where he knew the others watched. Roy was winded, but he held his jaw clenched and his mouth closed, waiting. “Very good. That will do, Lt. Col. Mustang. As you were.”

Roy withdrew and quickly righted his uniform, straightening and turning smartly to resume his place in the shadows at the far right of the committee. Gran glanced up at him with a disgusted smirk, but no one else said a word or otherwise acknowledged the atrocity they had just witnessed. The soldiers also withdrew from Edward and tossed his clothing in front of him. Roy watched as Edward replaced his clothing with trembling hands, his back to the committee.

When Edward turned again to face them, his eyes shown not with tears, but with a hardness that Roy knew reflected only the boy’s determination to make right what he had done wrong. Not taking his eyes from where he knew Bradley to sit, Edward meticulously replaced his white gloves before drawing an arm through the sleeve of his cloak. With a bow, Edward said, “I have upheld the honor of the code to which I have been entrusted. I will become a State Alchemist. I don’t care what you do to me.”

Bradley’s tone resumed its fatherly warmth. “Very well, Mr. Elric. I think it’s safe to say that I look forward to seeing your performance at the practical exam.”

Um, I know not many of you are FMA enthusiasts, but those of you who are . . . can you tell me why in the anime of "The Alchemy Exam" Riza Hawkeye is listed as a "major" but everywhere else, she's referred to as a first lieutenant? Did she get demoted or something?

Not to brag, but . . . heh.

Mon, 08 May 2006 21:37:07 GMT

Happy Birthday, keneally!!

Thu, 20 Apr 2006 13:52:58 GMT

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NICK!!!!

I hope your birthday was/is SPECTACULAR!

--hugs--

~~E

David and Enigma, fiction. (I miss David. --sigh--)

Mon, 13 Mar 2006 07:47:22 GMT

He put down the receiver quietly and stood there for a moment in silence, staring at the phone. “What is it?” his younger-looking companion asked, eying him critically. Enigma glanced up from the phone and turned his attention to David.

“It’s Mum. She’s . . . she has received discouraging news from the doctor,” he murmured, staring back at the phone as if he could will it to jump up and repudiate the conversation he had just had with his brother. He sighed heavily, his face otherwise stony. David did not move, but merely stood there in the Great Hall where he had paused when he had come in to find his fledgling engaged in the subdued conversation. With some effort, Enigma turned from the phone and walked to a sofa, where he sat resignedly and closed his eyes.

“You look tired,” David murmured, following him with his gaze, still standing where he had been.

Enigma said nothing for a moment, then answered without opening his eyes. “Yes. I suppose I am.” He leaned forward, burying his hands in his hair. “I . . . don’t know how to let her go.”

At this, David approached him and sat quietly beside him, raising a tentative hand and placing it on his back. Enigma shuddered lightly, but then seemed to relax beneath his touch. The two vampires sat there in silence for some minutes with no movement other than their steady breathing and David’s thumb caressing Enigma between his shoulder blades. At length, David murmured, “Come to bed with me.” Enigma said nothing, but he became as still as a statue, having left off the mortal habit of breathing air his lungs no longer needed. “Let me hold you tonight,” David added quietly.

Again, Enigma said nothing for several long moments. When he spoke, his voice was steady but deadly quiet. “Why, David?” He paused a beat. “Why do you want to hold me?”

This time, it was David who waited to speak, measuring his words carefully before he spoke in an equally steady and quiet voice, “Because you need me tonight.”

Enigma snorted, his head still in his hands. Almost below mortal hearing, he retorted, “I need you every night.”

“No . . . you don’t,” David responded, then sighed, his thumb still caressing Enigma’s back tenderly. “But I speak truthfully, not accusingly, my love,” he added as his fledgling’s shoulders sagged slightly. “I have withheld myself from you so that you no longer need me every night. I . . . .” Here, he paused, again trying to find the correct words. “I am not . . . the companion I wish I could be, Enigma. I know that.” David smiled bitterly, though Enigma was still staring at the floor between his own feet. “I don’t want you to need me every night because I cannot be here every night for you. And I cannot bear the thought that . . . that you are suffering because of me.”

Enigma took in the breath to sigh audibly, then resumed breathing. However, he said nothing in response. Nor did he move from his defeated posture. Several moments passed before David again murmured, “Come to bed with me tonight. Let me hold you, darling.” “Please,” he added quietly after there was no response.

Although Enigma did not give his assent, either verbally or non-verbally, he rose when David rose, pulling on his arm to urge him to stand. David slid his arm around Enigma’s waist, leading him up the front stairs which neither used very often any more. David, when he was home, spent his repose in the back bedroom he had always claimed as his own. Enigma slept either in the basement or the attic, depending upon his mood and where he found himself when dawn approached. Again, this was if he was home at all. As often as not, he found himself spending his daylight hours elsewhere: sometimes beneath the raw earth, sometimes in a luxury hotel.

The staircase, however, was used frequently by the mortal residents, and now owners, of the house. Though both vampires had urged the lads to take the master bedroom with the massive bathroom, Brent and Kyle had chosen to remain in the original bedroom they had occupied from their initial nights in the house. Remy, whose room had been designed specifically with his Buddist tendencies in mind, had no desire whatsoever for any other bedroom in the house. Thus, the mortal residents stayed in the front bedrooms of the splendidly refurbished old house, and utilized the front staircase.

Tonight, however, the two vampires ascended it with mortal steps, David drawing Enigma up the stairs and down the hall, toward the bedroom they had once called their own. When David opened the door, the room had a musty odor about it, though there was not a trace of dust that would indicate any disuse. Indeed, it seemed as though the bed linens had been freshly laundered; and there was wood stacked in the immaculate hearth, waiting to be transformed into a friendly, cheery fire. However, the New Orleans March night was far too warm to merit a fire, and Enigma merely stared blankly from the bed to the hearth and back again.

After closing the door, David came to Enigma and began to unbutton the white cotton shirt, the sleeves of which had been rolled up to just below the elbows. Enigma stared mutely at the bed, allowing David to undress him. When David had slid his trousers down for Enigma to step out of them, he murmured in a flat voice, “I . . . I don’t usually undress any more, David.”

“No,” David answered, squatting to remove Enigma’s shoes and socks, then sending all of the clothing to a nearby valet, “but you’re undressing tonight.” David rose and Enigma turned his eyes on him for the first time that evening since he had gotten off the phone. David met his gaze as David began unbuttoning his own shirt. Enigma said nothing, his expression betraying nothing, though he continued to stare into David’s dark eyes while David shed his clothing. When he sent his own clothing to the other valet, he took Enigma’s hand and drew him to the bed, pulling down the covers with his free hand. “Now . . . crawl into bed like a good lad, hmm?”

Enigma sighed heavily, but obeyed, tearing his eyes from David’s at last, and pulling back the covers to slide in beneath them. David rounded the bed and did the same, moving close to Enigma and wrapping his arms around the long, skinny frame of his fledgling, kissing the silky vampire hair. At first, Enigma did not respond. He just lay there, contemplating the feel of his maker’s flesh once again against his own. But as David continued to kiss and stroke his hair, throwing a leg possessively across his thighs, Enigma turned toward him and reached out his arms to embrace David with another deep sigh, closing his eyes.

“I love you, David,” Enigma murmured resignedly, kissing sweetly at David’s collarbone, his long fingertips taking in the contours of David’s spine and the musculature of his back.

“And I love you, my precious Enigma,” David responded, his lips pressed against Enigma’s forehead. “Though I understand if you find that hard to believe.” David continued to brush his lips repeatedly over Enigma’s forehead and hair, his limbs firmly, lovingly enveloping the younger vampire.

Enigma sighed yet again, answering softly against David’s flesh, “No . . . I believe you, David.” Another sigh. “I know that you love me.”

They continued the quiet kissing and mutual caressing until mortal sleep overcame Enigma, who rested peacefully in David’s arms. David spent the remainder of the night merely holding his companion, his fledgling, his son, listening to the slow, steady breathing and thrum of his vampiric heartbeat. When dawn approached, David heard the back part of the house shuttering itself against the daylight. Then, within a quarter of an hour, he felt the leaden daysleep coming over him, overcoming him.

Fan Fic SiriusxRemus

Mon, 20 Feb 2006 07:01:07 GMT

This is inspired by two drawings and a short drabble by ponderosa121, "First Kiss" and "Second Kiss" and "Roar of the Crowd," respectively. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin are characters which belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers, Inc. This is just for my own personal enjoyment and I am in no way making any sort of profit from my writing.

“Moony, my mate,” Sirius spoke as he breezed into the dorm room he shared with his fellow marauders. Remus Lupin looked up from the book he was perusing to see the handsome young man’s black hair flowing behind him as if he had planned to make the striking entrance.

“Padfoot,” Remus said simply, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re bored.” His gray eyes rested over his friend’s features, and he tried not to think about his quickening heart rate, nor the stirring elsewhere in his body. “Where is James tonight?”

“Out with Evans again, where else?” The tall, slender youth threw himself in a chair with a pout. “And Wormtail has detention . . . again. I swear . . . he can’t do a bloody thing without getting caught!”

Remus smiled at the petulance etched on his friend’s face, which only somehow made it more endearing. “So now you are left here with no one to torment but me. I see.” He paused as Sirius turned his dark eyes up to meet his gaze. “Poor Padfoot.”

Sirius’ smile was alarming and almost cruel in its hardness. But there was no real cruelty in it, Remus knew. “Yes. Poor Padfoot. Let’s go do something.”

“Like what?” Remus looked leary, but he had already closed his book.

“I don’t know. Let’s take a walk down to the Forbidden Forest,” Sirius answered as he bounced to his feet again.

“The Forbidden Forest?” Remus echoed questioningly, but he was already pulling his cloak over his robes.

“Well, I would suggest the Black Lake, but that’s where Prongs and Evans are . . . and god knows how many other lovely-dovey couples,” Sirius replied, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Too bad it’s not the full moon,” he grinned.

Remus smiled lightly. “Speak for yourself. I am quite content with a lovely crescent moon, myself.” He opened the bedroom door and motioned for Sirius to go ahead of him. Sirius grabbed his cloak and did just that.

They made their way through the castle and out the massive front doors and down the steps in silence. Indeed, they were edging along the greenhouses before either of them spoke a word. “That was some Quidditch match today, don’t you think?” Sirius offered as he slowed to a leisurely stroll now that they were out of sight from prying eyes.

Remus had buried his hands in his pockets, focusing on the frosty grass of the lawn as they had strode to the greenhouses. Now he looked up to see Sirius glancing at him sideways. “Oh, er . . . yes, it was.” He smiled weakly. Actually, the Quidditch match was exactly what he had been contemplating in the silence. In fact, he had been contemplating it off and on all day long. Well, not the Quidditch part of the Quidditch match; but rather, what had happened during the Quidditch match. He felt himself flush with the memory, and was grateful for the darkness. “Er . . . James is quite the player, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is. And he knows it better than anyone else, too,” Sirius gave his bark-like laugh. “I told him if his head gets any bigger, he’ll float right off his broomstick!”

Remus smiled at Sirius’ easiness. He could hardly believe how fortunate he was to have such good friends as Sirius and James. Not only didn’t they mind that he was a werewolf, they actually made him feel special because of it. They teased him just as they teased each other. He was every bit as much a part of the gang as either of them were. They might be derisive about Wormtail, but they were never derisive about him. Not even about his being concerned about his studies, nor about the fact that he was a Prefect. In fact, they were openly affectionate with him, whereas so many people seemed afraid even to touch him. It was the thought of this affection that once again brought the blood into his cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” Sirius said suddenly.

“Wh-what do you mean? Nothing,” Remus stammered, his eyes wide with alarm.

Sirius grinned. “What were you thinking about just then?”

“Er . . . nothing. Quidditch. Um . . . why do you ask?” Remus was a terrible liar, and he winced under Sirius’ leering grin.

Sirius had stopped and caught Remus’ elbow, turning him to face him. “I’ve never seen you wear such a soft expression about Quidditch, Moony, my friend. Who were you thinking about, hmmm?” His face was just inches from Remus’ and he could hear his friend’s breath turn almost into panting with the inquiry.

“Er . . . what makes you think I was thinking of someone,” Remus asked breathlessly as his heart began to race and he gazed into those dark, fathomless eyes.

Sirius smiled disarmingly as his hand slid up Remus’ arm, over his shoulder, and into his hair. “Because not even you could look that fondly about a ‘thing’ . . . not even schoolwork.”

Now Remus truly was panting. He knew that anything he said in response would incriminate him, so he took a different tact. “Sirius . . . this morning at the Quidditch match . . . I . . . I was wondering . . . .” He trailed off, not knowing exactly how to phrase the question that had badgered him all day.

“Wondering what, Remus?” his voice was like pure silk, and his breath close enough to taste. Remus brought his hand up reflexively, pushing against Sirius’ arm. “I didn’t upset you, did I?”

“Er . . . no! . . . I mean . . . did you mean to . . . ah . . . ,” again his voice trailed off, but he was mesmerized by the dark eyes, by the caress of the long fingers in his hair. His heart felt as though it would explode right out of his chest. The thoughts had taunted him and teased him all day, yet he could still scarcely contemplate the implications of what Sirius’s touches had meant earlier. And now, even though it seemed rather evident what Sirius meant to do next, his mind still somehow denied what was happening, and he sought for some sort of verbal confirmation.

“Did I mean to press against you?” the words were barely above a whisper, spoken just inches from his lips.

“Well . . . yes, and . . . .”

“Like I mean to kiss you now?” he interrupted in the same seductive tone.

“What?!?” Remus yelped. He had heard it, but he still didn’t believe it.

“A first kiss should be a memorable one, don’t you think?” he murmured as he pressed closer to Remus’ lips, his hand pulling Remus into it.

“Sirius . . . Padfoot . . . I . . . ,” but Sirius’ mouth was already there, and Remus melted into the kiss without any further protest. Something deep within him cried foul at kissing another boy, and his shame was deepened because his body responded so readily to the intimate kiss. Something deeper though, on a more primal level, felt loved and secure for perhaps the first time in his life outside of his parents.

When the kiss broke apart, Sirius just smiled and turned to stroll again. After a dazed moment, Remus followed silently in his wake. After a few minutes of this, Sirius murmured, “You’re still here,” without turning to look at him.

“So I am” Remus almost chuckled. “Glad you noticed.”

There was another long moment of silent ambling before Sirius spoke again, still without looking at him. “So you must not have hated it.”

Remus smiled as he licked his lip, his gaze once again on the glittering grass. “No . . . I didn’t hate it.”

Before he knew what was happening, Sirius turned again and suddenly pressed his lips hard against Remus’ mouth. Remus staggered backward just from the shock of the unexpected kiss, and felt the bark of a massive tree at his back, Sirius still pressing into the kiss. Remus’ lips had parted to accommodate the invasion, but his mind still couldn’t quite grasp what Sirius was doing. This time, Remus’ eyes remained open, as if to force himself to see and accept it. When Sirius finally stepped back, Remus just stared at him.

Sirius was again the first to break the gaze and walk on. This time, Remus stumbled to catch up with him. “Why . . . why did you do that? I mean . . . ,” this time, Remus caught Sirius’ arm to swing him around face-to-face. “Why did you just . . . walk away like that?” The gray eyes bore into the dark ones, trying to discern whether or not there was sincerity in their depths.

For the first time, something changed in Sirius’ expression as he met that fierce, demanding gaze. Yet, he did not answer his friend, not verbally. He brought his hand up again, his finger tracing the latest scar across the bridge of Remus’ nose, then pushing back the shock of brown hair from the intense grey eyes. Sirius sighed audibly, the characteristic arrogant smirk noticeably absent.

“What . . . what does this mean, Sirius? . . . Why did you do that?” Remus pressed him for an answer.

At last, Sirius spoke, still caressing Remus’ hair along his brow. “What do you want it to mean, Remus? . . . Why do you think I wanted to kiss you?” There was another long bout of silence before he added, “I walked away so that you would know that it doesn’t have to mean anything more than you want it to mean.” He smiled lightly as he withdrew his hand. “It doesn’t have to mean anything at all.” He gestured wildly, taking in the expanse of the crisp, starry sky. “You know me, Remus. I’m just crazy enough to do anything once,” he said, and returned his now-grinning gaze to his friend.

Remus frowned, his brow furrowing deeply. “Yes, you’re crazy. But you’re not cruel. I have to know that meant something to you, Sirius. Tell me what it meant to you.”

Sirius’ grin faded into a wry smile. “I said I was crazy enough to do anything once. But you’ll notice that I kissed you twice. That’s not my craziness.” Once again, he slid his hand into Remus’ hair, pulling his friend’s forehead against his and dropping his voice. “And if you want it to mean something more, then I will kiss you again.”

This time, Remus was ready for it. His hand clutched at the front of Sirius’ cloak to pull him into the kiss that he now returned eagerly, his tongue pressing past Sirius’ parted lips hungrily. This time, when the lengthy kiss ended, Sirius chuckled softly, his eyes flashing as he looked at Remus. “It’s a lot better when you kiss back, you know.”

Remus smiled lopsidedly. “Well, I would certainly hope so.” He sighed gently, but still looked quizzically at his dark-haired friend. There were still so many questions unanswered, not the least of which was where all this was leading. He had never given much thought to physical intimacy of any kind, knowing that the chances of his finding a lover who understood and wasn’t repulsed by his affliction was nil-to-none. Yet, here was someone who had certainly left the door of possibility propped wide open.

As if reading his friend’s mind, Sirius leaned to give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Let’s not worry about anything. Instead, we’ll just take it as it comes, all right?” He took Remus’ hand and gave it a squeeze as they resumed their stroll. “We won’t do anything that doesn’t feel right for us . . . keeping in mind that our friendship comes first, always. How does that sound?”

Remus squeezed the hand that held his. “I think that sounds bloody brilliant, Padfoot, my friend.”

Shamelessly stolen from keneally

Mon, 13 Feb 2006 07:03:33 GMT

Okay, here's your chance to wreak your revenge upon me (though I would hope you'd be honest, even if you're mean, okay?). Go here http://kevan.org/johari?name=enigmaroolz and choose six words that you think describe me.

A note for all

Fri, 27 Jan 2006 19:11:15 GMT

My 80-year-old mother had a minor procedure today, and they are 99% positive that she has endometrial cancer. There is no prognosis, but they will be reviewing her options Monday. Please keep all of us in your thoughts and prayers.

Thanks.

Tue, 10 Jan 2006 10:42:28 GMT

Okay, I edited my FMA Fan Fic (December 24) to make it R-rated. I think I accomplished it. At least, it's a lot racier than it was before! If anyone is interested, let me know what you think.

FMA Fan Fic --okay, now it's really R-rated. --small smile--

Sat, 24 Dec 2005 08:53:31 GMT

I will write a fanfic or drabble with the pairing
Winry/Hughes
rated
R
and include the following things:
movie, table, library

Don't know what pairing to write?
Then let the Fullmetal Alchemist Pairing Machine decide for you

“Isn’t she just the epitome of cuteness?” he slurred, waving a bent and fingerprint-marked photo of a smiling little girl at his best friend.

“Go home, Hughes,” Mustang replied as he drained the last of his glass and set it down on the bar. “You’ve shown me that same picture at least a dozen times in the last hour. You’re drunk and you need to go sleep it off.” His words might have been just as gruff, but their tone betrayed Roy’s sympathy.

A frown tugged at Maes Hughes’ usually jovial expression. “I can’t go home, Roy. Home is in Central and I’m stuck out here in the Eastern Command Center with you.” He raised his blood-shot eyes from the charming toddler to his friend, who had risen from his barstool. “The least you can do is stay with me.”

Roy patted his friend’s shoulder, his lips curled in just the slightest hint of a smile, which always made him look arrogant. “I would, but I have a very hot date tonight under the mistletoe with a very sexy blond. A man has to have priorities.” His expression changed subtly, no longer arrogant-looking. “Go sleep this off, Hughes. You’ll feel better in the morning.” And with that, he turned and left Hughes to his misery.

Hughes took another sloppy gulp of the beer before him before he, too, rose shakily from the barstool. With a sigh, he took one last wistful look at the picture before he stuffed it back into his breast pocket and turned to weave his way out of the bar.

It was snowing when he managed to stumble out the door. Perfect. he thought grimly, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets. Christmas Eve and here we are with all the makings of a down-home Christmas and I’m nowhere near home. He sighed deeply, turning up his collar and leaning into the stout wind, which threatened to topple him in his unsteadiness.

Maes Hughes wanted nothing so much as to be with his family, with the wife he adored and the daughter who was the veritable light of his life. The ache he felt, the longing, went all the way down to his bones. That alone would have been enough to drag him down, but having to slog his way through the deepening snow only made his heart heavier with each stumbling step. His mind was in a sort of unending movie loop, replaying his loneliness, but never getting to the part where he calls his wife and daughter in the morning and gets to hear his dear Elicia squeal when she opens his present.

At length, he found himself at the Eastern library: cold, wet, exhausted, and still very much inebriated. Forget that he probably couldn’t have made it back to his bed anyway. The fact was that he had absolutely no desire whatsoever to crawl into a cold, empty bed. At least the library was warm and dry. And there were others who had taken refuge from the storm outside. “We would normally be closed, officer,” a smiling elderly woman called to him from behind the main circulation desk, “but since it is so terrible outside and since there are obviously people who have no place else to go, I decided to keep the library open tonight. You are welcome to stay. Why don’t you take off your coat there in the foyer and hang it to dry?”

Hughes mechanically obeyed the woman as she droned on about how this was also her first Christmas since her husband had passed away and how her children were all grown and gone and how thrilled she was to have others to help her endure the holidays. Somehow, at the thought of having no one at all, Hughes couldn’t even bring himself to press upon her the well-worn picture of Elicia. Plus, he was far too intoxicated for any semi-intelligent conversation. He simply smiled weakly at the chattering woman and nodded when it seemed that she had dismissed him.

Carefully balancing himself against the long row of shelves, he sought the interior of the cavernous room. The heat, though quite welcome after the teeth-chattering wind, made the room reel and spin; and he was having real difficulty remaining upright as he made his way through the book-lined aisle. Just how long are these damn aisles? he thought as his stomach gave a lurch.

He knew he had to sit down soon or fall down, so he took a chance on picking up his pace and turned a blind corner in hopes of finding a chair, a table, somewhere, anywhere he could sit until the room stopped spinning and his stomach settled back down. THUD!

“Ow!” exclaimed the girl he had just plowed into.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he managed to mumble, groping blindly for something that would keep him upright and managing to cling to the girl.

“Mr. Hughes? Is that you? Oh my! You don’t look so good! Here, let me help you!” Winry Rockbell held him steady as she led him to a nearby table. The last that he truly remembered was trying to say something to the effect of an apology and an explanation, and thinking that the words were not coming out at all as he had arranged them in his head.

******************

“Mr. Hughes? . . . Mr. Hughes?” Winry prodded him gently, but his only response was unintelligble murmuring. He was sodden and cold and clearly in no shape to make it back to the military command post. However, Winry’s hotel was just around the corner. She might be able to maneuver him back there. After all, it was Christmas Eve. She had come to surprise Ed and Al by spending the holidays with them, only to discover that they had already stepped out for their evening plans when she arrived. Her surprise would have to wait for the morning.

She tried again to rouse the Lt. Colonel, but he merely murmured “Gracia . . . !” and trailed off again into the unintelligible mumbling. After glancing around, she decided he definitely needed someplace he could lie down and sleep off his celebrating.

Donning her own heavy coat, scarf, and gloves, she leaned over him and spoke quietly, “Mr. Hughes, come with me. Let’s get you to a bed,” while tugging on his arm to urge him to stand.

Miraculously, he opened his bleary gaze and smiled at her. “Oh Gracia! . . . I’m so glad to see you!” Even more miraculously, he climbed unsteadily to his feet and enfolded her in an almost bone-crushing embrace.

“Uh, yeah,” she murmured. “Come with me, Mr. Hughes.” Her voice was muffled against his chest, but she pulled him back down the library aisle toward the entryway. “You don’t need to stay here tonight.”

Leaning heavily on her strong but slender frame, he stumbled back the way he had come in. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to be with you! God, but I’ve missed you so much!” His arm was slung over her shoulders and he nuzzled the top of her scarf.

“Sure you have, Mr. Hughes,” she puffed under his weight. “Let’s get your coat on, okay?” There was only one coat hanging in foyer that could possibly be his, and she struggled to help him thread his arms into the sleeves, still supporting him as she buttoned it up. All the while, he continued to babble to her snippets that didn’t make much sense to her. “Okay,” she said, once she had fastened his coat securely. “Let’s go. It’s not far.”

“You are so good to me! What would I do without you? I’d be lost. Just lost,” he slurred as the two of them lurched out the door into the howling wind and stinging sleet.

Even though the hotel was less than two blocks away, it was slow going. By the time Winry had managed to get the poor man out of the weather, both of them were soaked to the skin and shivering. The hotel clerk came to her rescue and, supporting the blue-clad military officer on the other side, helped them to her room. There, Maes Hughes collapsed on the bed, face down.

After thanking the clerk and taking off her own sopping outer garments and hanging them to dry, she turned back to the prone man whose clothing was beginning to soak through the bed coverings. “Well, we can’t very well have that, now can we?” Winry said, basically to herself. She rolled him to his side and unfastened the coat, then rolled him back and forth, tugging this way and that, until she finally took both his coat and his shirt from him. Still, his boots and his pants also had to come off, which she struggled to accomplish for another fifteen minutes.

To her dismay, his boxers peeled right off, along with the sodden uniform trousers. However, it wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before. After all, being an automail mechanic, she had seen plenty of bare flesh for her age; and most of it was male, due mainly to the fact that most soldiers in need of prostheses were male. When she returned from hanging his clothing to dry, she had found that he had somehow managed to crawl beneath the covers of his own accord. When she carefully took his glasses from him, she found that he was icy to the touch and still shivering.

She gazed at his slumbering, drunken form as she undressed, pondering her dilemma of having only one bed. She quickly determined that it was far too cold for her to sleep anywhere else, however; and decided that he was far too drunk to pose any threat, anyway. He’d probably not even rouse until morning. Slipping into a soft cotton gown, she quickly turned off the light and crawled into the other side of the bed.

Almost immediately, she felt a strong, icy arm circling her waist and pulling her closer to the other occupant. “Mr. Hughes!” she cried, pushing against the bare chest that she was being drawn against.

But before she could protest further, warm, salty lips pressed against hers with a tenderness that belied Maes’ drunken condition. “Mmmmm. Yes, Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Hughes is home,” he murmured against them before pressing his tongue past them, reaching as if to caress her teeth. “And he has missed his Mrs. so badly,” he whispered before licking her lips and then suckling them as if to dry the moisture from them.

“No, Mr. Hughes. You don’t know what you’re doing!” she strove to make herself understood against his tender, wet, incessant kisses, still pushing against the firm, cold musculature of his torso. He was amazingly strong for being a desk jockey. Yet, even in his overpowering embrace, his touch was gentle, as if she were a delicate, priceless work of art. “You . . . you don’t . . . Mr. Hughes! I’m not your wife!”

“Oh Gracia, please don’t be mad, sweetheart,” he breathed between his dulcet kisses. “I know you don’t like it when I drink this much, but I just missed you so much! I love you so much, baby. Mmmmm. Don’t worry, you know I know how to please you. My god, how I love you!”

At this, his hand slid between their bodies and Winry jumped at an unexpected tweak of the cloth covering her hardened nipple. “AHHHHH! Mr. . . . Hughes!” But she was only pushing away half-heartedly, her attention now fully focused on the heat that was rising between her legs. Her struggle to free herself of the embrace metamorphosed into a less purposeful squirm as his other hand slid down her back to grip her buttocks. His lips, still trailing words of love and desire, kissed over her jaw and down her neck. Before she could recover her senses, her body exploded from the expert stimulation of first one nipple and then the other, his large hand spanning over both breasts at once.

“You . . . you . . . !” But she could not think clearly at this point, her body overriding her judgment so completely that when the hand at her buttocks pulled up the gown, she had forgotten exactly what she was supposed to be protesting. He had scooted down beneath the covers a bit, now teasing at her nipples with his lips and teeth, and all she could do at that point was to arch her back to press herself to his ministrations.

“My beautiful Gracia! I am one helluva lucky man! I love you so much, baby! God, you are a dream come true!” All this and more was spoken in a muffled slur against Winry’s chest as his other hand found purchase just the way his wife craved his invasive touch. When Winry squealed and squirmed against him, he responded in kind to the woman he loved and cherished, promising her more complete and satisfying love-making come morning when the effects of the alcohol had worn off. Indeed, he swore to her that he’d never let her go, the military be damned. It was not until he was soothed by the spasms around his fingers and the shuddering gasps beneath his lips, that he withdrew his hand to cuddle against the woman in his arms for the night.

******************

When he awoke, he was in a bed with soft, warm sheets. His head felt as though all of Santa’s reindeer had run over him with the sleigh full of toys and St. Nicholas, too. When he opened his eyes a sliver, the light was so intense, he felt his stomach lurch again and shut them immediately. “Where am I?” he murmured to no one.

“Well . . . you’re in my hotel room,” came an entirely unexpected voice. If it didn’t hurt so badly, his eyes would have flown open at the girlish voice. Instead, his expression contorted in a mixture of shock and horror, settling into a deeply furrowed brow, which his hand passed over in an attempt to keep his head from exploding. On the very heels of this shock came the realization that beneath the ample covers, he was entirely naked. Oh shit! he thought, and shivered involuntarily.

With much difficulty, he forced his eyes open again, just a sliver, turning his head slightly to glance at the source of the voice out of the corner of his eye. On the edge of the bed sat a lovely blond woman who was not quite young enough to have been his daughter. Thankfully, she wore a kimono which covered her completely. He did not want to know what she wore beneath it, secretly praying that she was actually fully dressed, though he knew this was only his own wishful thinking. “Er . . . .”

“You were really out of it last night. I barely got you here at all. And when I did manage to get you inside, well, you passed out on my bed. You were dripping wet, and I couldn’t very well leave you like that. And, well . . . once I got all the wet clothes off you, I couldn’t very well leave you on top of the bed.” She smiled coyly. “So anyway, it was a lot easier to get you under the covers than it was to get you here from the library. And you were so cold!” Here, she broke off, though she continued to gaze at him.

He closed his eyes again and shifted his head again, still pressing his hand against his forehead. He was afraid to ask the questions which were now pinging off his brain, though he managed to quell the rising panic with the personal reassurance that he had been far too drunk for anything truly unconscionable to have happened. At the same time, he also knew that his body would function on automatic pilot. He was not in the habit of crawling into bed with anyone other than his wife. As out-of-it as he had been, how could his higher judgment have possibly overridden what his body would do by sheer force of habit?

When Winry did not volunteer any additional information, he managed to swallow and croak, “Uh . . . what . . . uh . . . how far . . . um . . . .” Damn! This is harder than I thought it would be! He licked his lips and swallowed again. “Winry . . . did I do anything . . . ?”

“Gracia . . . ah, Mrs. Hughes . . . is a very lucky woman.” He opened his eyes again slightly, just catching the flush of the cheeks before she turned her back to him.

Oh shit! Outwardly, he groaned inarticulately, his ragged mind racing in a dozen directions at once. He was mortally ashamed: ashamed of betraying his wife and family, ashamed of betraying an innocent girl’s trust, ashamed of his lack of discipline and self-control for getting so drunk last night, ashamed that his physical needs and urges would override his heart. At length, he murmured, “Winry . . . I am so sorry!”

“Oh, you didn’t do anything, really, Mr. Hughes. I mean . . . well . . . um, face it . . . you were pretty drunk.” He could tell by Winry’s voice that she had turned again to face him. But his mortification wouldn’t let him open his eyes. “No . . . ,” her voice trailed off, and when it resumed after a moment, it was very small and sad. “No . . . you just, well . . . you just . . . reached for me and held me. You called me Gracia, and . . . um . . . you told me over and over again how much you loved me and needed me . . . how proud you were that you had married me and how you didn’t deserve me.”

At this, he heard her swallow hard, and he ventured another peek at her. Her eyes were brimmed with tears, which brought tears to his own eyes. “You told me how much you missed me . . . how . . . how you loved me so much that you ached when I wasn’t in your arms.” At this, the tears slid silently down the youthful cheek just as they began to slide down the bewhiskered one. “The . . . the only physical thing you did . . . besides cling to me all night . . . was . . . you . . . you kissed me,” she lied. Here, she turned away, the color once again rising in her face. It was his turn to swallow, but she continued. “I . . . I never knew that . . . that a man could kiss like that.”

She sighed and once again, he closed his eyes, shame invading him utterly. He swallowed again and licked his lips, “Winry . . . .”

“Oh no, Mr. Hughes . . . I’m not upset by it,” she interrupted him. “I just . . . I never knew kisses could be so . . . so tender, so . . . sweet.” She sighed again. “I never knew a kiss could . . . could contain so much . . . emotion.” He opened his eyes again to find a small, lop-sided smile on her face. “It made me realize that I’ve got a lot to learn.”

She rose and came around the bed, then leaned down and kissed his forehead sweetly. “Thank you. Now I know . . . what I really want in a relationship.” She straightened and then turned to go out the room. “Your clothes are dry. I’m going to get tea from the hotel kitchen while you dress.” She glanced back at him. “And some aspirin, as well as something to eat. You need something on your stomach before you call your family.”

An open entry! On LJ Friends and Drama

Thu, 22 Dec 2005 07:29:39 GMT

I haven't posted a public entry that had anything personal in it since the days of Kristina and her whole drama-queen bit. In fact, she's the reason I went to a friends-only journal. Since then, I have been fortunate enough to give her a wide berth, as far as I know, though I truly hope all is well in her world.

But this entry isn't about that.

No, this entry was inspired by some drama that is happening in another friend's LJ. He posted some . . . er . . . more avant-garde photos in his LJ back in October and he was just recently unfriended by someone who cited these photos as the reason. Now the photos are . . . interesting, I suppose. But they were behind an LJ cut and my friend clearly warned that they were NWS and even called them "hard-core porn." So if someone wasn't into such things, there really was no reason to click to look behind the cut. Plus, this particular friend probably posts more LJ entries than the majority of LJ users, so his ratio of non-tasteful (and that's not my assessment of the pics, but it obviously was the assessment of the unfriender) to tasteful posts is probably better than mine. (Not that I post any pictures, ever! I'm far too ignorant of html to do stuff like that!)

Anyway, as the drama plays out in my friend's corner of the world, it got me to thinking about this whole LJ Drama stuff and Friends and what-not. Ya see, there's this guy I want to friend: wilyumz. He's a displaced New Orleaner (is that what you call them?) who happens to be a long-time HIV-positive person. He's got a wickedly funny sense of humor and he just seems like the kind of guy whose LJ I'd want to keep up with.

The problem (and I've explained this in my comments on his LJ) is that I have some really paranoid friends on my LJ. However, in analyzing this situation, I realize that my paranoid friends are all vampires. Now I cut all but five vampire user names from my friends list; and of those five names, three are basically no longer used. So let's say that I have two vampires on my friends list now. I have a handful more friends who do or have done vampire RP.

More than once, I've been chided for talking about vampire RP in my LJ. There are people who believe that I have utterly betrayed them because I mentioned them in my LJ. Forget that I don't mention names or locations. Forget filters. Forget that I truly trust the few who are on my friends list. Forget that the great majority of my friends couldn't care less about vampire RP anyway. Forget that the great majority of my friends probably never make it past the first couple of paragraphs of my dribble on any given day. I am as black as Satan himself and just as unredeemable.

Now the question that I could be asked is "Why are you still friending these folks?" Well, I have two compelling reasons. The first reason is that these folks are damn good writers, and I want to read what they write. I check my Friends Page on a regular basis. However, I have neither the time nor the inclination to go look up a half-dozen LJs which aren't on my friends list. On those days when I am sufficiently bored, I have other things to do than to browse through Live Journal. So those vampires whose work I don't want to miss, I friend.

The other reason is that I really do like and care about these folks. Now I know that probably sounds really trite. However, it is true. I am intensely loyal to my online friends . . . even those who feel that I have betrayed them. I started participating in vampire RP six years ago. Six. How old were you six years ago? I was 39. I am not a kid. I am not a fly-by-night friend (no pun intended --grin--). I made the comment to someone that time was on my side to prove my sincerity. (Heh, she responded that I was correct because time would make people forget how horribly I had betrayed them.)

However, I would challenge anyone here to observe me for six years and then judge how "flighty" you think I am. I think you will find that if I continue to friend you, it is because you mean something to me. Even my paranoid friends should realize that by now. I am not a back-stabber, either. Even my accusers can attest that what I do, I do openly, for better or for worse.

Anyway . . .

All of this to say that I'm going to friend wilyumz. No, I don't know him very well. However, I really don't think he's into vampires. I "met" him through a comment that someone else (not even wilyumz) made in another friend's LJ that cited something he had written. (Talk about a friend of a friend of a friend!) I make a solemn oath to all my vampire friends not to tell wilyumz anything about you, okay? (As if he cares one way or the other!) It seems really stupid that I should have to defend my choice to friend anyone. However, it is because I care about my paranoid friends that I explain what I'm doing before I do it.

Meanwhile . . .

If you've read this far, I want to wish you the merriest of Christmases and the best in the upcoming New Year. No matter who you are, friend or stranger or even enemy (though I don't have many of those, thankfully!), my sincerest wish is that all is right in your world this holiday season.

New User Pic

Wed, 12 Oct 2005 23:44:08 GMT

I have to show it off because this is too cute! I yanked it from caterplillar, from a comment in zora1230's LJ. She graciously said she would share it with me, though she has no idea where she got it.

Sorry . . . I couldn't resist.

Wed, 27 Apr 2005 03:26:55 GMT

The Yaoi Selector: Which Uke are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

--shaking my head-- I'd probably be more disgusted if Ryo had been one of the possible answers, but he wasn't.

Just because I want to see how many actually read my LJ. --grin--

Sat, 14 Aug 2004 02:50:53 GMT

Part of being on Livejournal.com is inevitably gaining a number of LJ buddies. Unfortunately, as time wears on, it's easy to forget where all of them came from.

Do you remember how you came across my journal?

Post this in your journal and have your friends respond with how they recall first meeting you. And if you're a lurker who sometimes comments, by all means introduce yourself and tell me how you found me.