Categories > Anime/Manga > Full Metal Alchemist
She found him feeling around in his pockets for a lighter or a matchbook, wondering how the hell he'd managed to lose both of them. Suddenly, her hand was there, her delicate fingers holding a lighter with a flickering flame, and she purred, "Need some help?"
He'd nearly dropped his cigarette. His first look at her and he could already see her between his sheets -- or, hell, who needed sheets? -- and from the look in her eyes, he thought she might be thinking the same thing.
He offered her a cigarette but she refused demurely. He suggested a nearby outdoor cafe that had different flowers on every table. Theirs had exotic fuschia blossoms, and he gallantly tucked one of the bright flowers behind her ear, leaning in close enough to brush his lips over her jaw as he whispered sweet nothings.
They talked for a while in smooth games that hummed with tension, and as Havoc breathed a soft stream of smoke into the candle flame, she slipped her hand onto his thigh and leaned closer, whispering that she had a place close by. He didn't have to be asked twice, and they left, their sangria untouched.
It turned out that sheets were involved, though the bedclothes ended up on the floor rather quickly, and every instinct Havoc had of how much they would enjoy each other's company was confirmed.
Hours later, on the late-night side of morning, Havoc slipped from the bed and quietly dressed himself. She pushed herself up on her elbow, her hair falling gloriously around her face and shoulders, and watched him with a sensual pout. "Leaving already, Jean?" she sighed.
"Afraid so," he smiled, pausing with his trousers half-up to lean over the bed and kiss her frown away. "I'll call you tomorrow, after work," he promised, and she ran her fingernails down his neck, scraping them gently over his shoulders and chest.
"All right," she sighed, rising from the bed, letting the sheets slouch negligently over her figure in a half-covering. As he fastened his pants and began to button his shirt, she found the wilted fuschia on the bedside table and tucked it into his top buttonhole. "You won't forget?"
He grinned at her, sliding his hand under the sheet. "I won't forget."
On the way home, he pulled the flower out of the buttonhole and looked at it thoughtfully. "Beware, your lover is false," he muttered to its petals. "Yeah, that's what I thought, too." He grinned. "But she sure is pretty."
He'd nearly dropped his cigarette. His first look at her and he could already see her between his sheets -- or, hell, who needed sheets? -- and from the look in her eyes, he thought she might be thinking the same thing.
He offered her a cigarette but she refused demurely. He suggested a nearby outdoor cafe that had different flowers on every table. Theirs had exotic fuschia blossoms, and he gallantly tucked one of the bright flowers behind her ear, leaning in close enough to brush his lips over her jaw as he whispered sweet nothings.
They talked for a while in smooth games that hummed with tension, and as Havoc breathed a soft stream of smoke into the candle flame, she slipped her hand onto his thigh and leaned closer, whispering that she had a place close by. He didn't have to be asked twice, and they left, their sangria untouched.
It turned out that sheets were involved, though the bedclothes ended up on the floor rather quickly, and every instinct Havoc had of how much they would enjoy each other's company was confirmed.
Hours later, on the late-night side of morning, Havoc slipped from the bed and quietly dressed himself. She pushed herself up on her elbow, her hair falling gloriously around her face and shoulders, and watched him with a sensual pout. "Leaving already, Jean?" she sighed.
"Afraid so," he smiled, pausing with his trousers half-up to lean over the bed and kiss her frown away. "I'll call you tomorrow, after work," he promised, and she ran her fingernails down his neck, scraping them gently over his shoulders and chest.
"All right," she sighed, rising from the bed, letting the sheets slouch negligently over her figure in a half-covering. As he fastened his pants and began to button his shirt, she found the wilted fuschia on the bedside table and tucked it into his top buttonhole. "You won't forget?"
He grinned at her, sliding his hand under the sheet. "I won't forget."
On the way home, he pulled the flower out of the buttonhole and looked at it thoughtfully. "Beware, your lover is false," he muttered to its petals. "Yeah, that's what I thought, too." He grinned. "But she sure is pretty."
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