Uxorius
Uxorius
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Title:
Uxorius.
Beta: Zoe, aka Pride, who went WTF at me when she read the pairing.
Rating: Hard R/NC-17.
Genre: PWP-ish Drama.
Pairings: Winry/Dorochet, one-sided Winry/Ed.
Feedback: Please! Feed my crazy!
Word Count: +/- 924.
Summary: He’s a curious thing, this chimera of hers, so fierce, so
strong, and yet so completely at her mercy, it leaves her lightheaded when she
thinks about it.
Notes: Written for the fma_fuh_q month challenge, Winry. A bit too short
for my tastes, but I like how it came out. By the way, if you're too lazy to
look up for it, the title is an adjective given to men or husbands who are
submissive to their wives. I think it fits, ne?
style='font-family:Tahoma'>~·~·~
Uxorius.
~·~·~
He’s a curious
thing, this chimera of hers, so fierce, so strong, and yet so completely at her
mercy, it leaves her lightheaded when she thinks about it. He’s gruff and
seemingly hates to be told what to do, but he always ends up doing what she
says, up to the point she has come to realize he needs her to tell him
what to do. From mundane little feats, like moving a table or retrieving the
heaviest equipment from the lab, to the very essential, like the fact she hates
it when he bites her breasts. He’s very much a dog, though he loathes to be
reminded of it, and it shows.
Perhaps that’s
why she took him in, in the first place, because of the strange need for
guidance he showed that night.
When he grinds
his teeth and sinks into her, her body arches up but her mind is elsewhere.
Always elsewhere. It’s not that she doesn’t enjoy it, she does; each and every
thrust sends spikes of pleasure stumbling up and down her spine and her vision
blurs at the edges from the sheer intensity of it all, but her mind goes out of
focus the moment he’s on her. Her consciousness scatters when they kiss, her
tongue curling teasingly over too sharp teeth that can’t be human and her
attention turns to a million details that suddenly seem far more vibrant than
the sensation of calloused hands sliding under her shirt.
Rizembul is a
small town, small enough to have everyone speculating about the burly man that
suddenly came to live with the Rockbells. On lazy summer afternoons, Winry
amuses herself by listening to the latest conjecture her neighbors have come up
with and tries not to flinch whenever Edward comes up in the mix. Edward’s
away, chasing a dream and proving his worth, not curling himself around her,
until she can’t tell where he starts and she ends. Edward is away, and he’s
here, and that’s not so hard to figure out.
Some times,
when there’s an arm thrown possessively over her waist – dogs are terribly
territorial creatures after all – and a low snoring by her ear, she wonders if
things would be different somehow. What if’s have always plagued her mind,
taunting her with a plethora of possibilities that have no way of becoming
true. What if her parents hadn’t died. What if Ed and Al hadn’t attempted to
bring back their mother. What if their mother hadn’t died. What if she hadn’t
felt so keenly for the lonesome man hiding in the woods. What if she hadn’t
been so lone that she had welcomed him into her home. What if she hadn’t
welcomed him into her bed.
She wonders and
wonders and wonders, between breakfast and lunch, between hammering metal and
worrying about Ed, she wonders…
But then he
corners her somewhere, snarling feraly and holding her hands against the wall,
and it doesn’t matter anymore.
He’s not
Edward. He’s not what she had wished for. He’s not even good for her. But he
fills her roughly and she clenches all her muscles for him, and only for him,
and it really doesn’t matter. He’s just a scruffy stray that seems to
have decided to stay regardless of what she thought about it.
And when she’s
coming, biting her lip to keep from screeching, when the world blurs into a
thousand shards of nothingness, when she has a bright epiphany about life, love
and whatnot, when he spills inside her and she has flashes of a family she will
not have… then is when she fades away to the background and reality seems to take
a break.
He doesn’t call
her name when he comes, and she doesn’t either, but it’s fine and neither
cares, because this isn’t about love, or passion or anything silly like that.
This is about sex and release and a protest against an unfair world that has
never given two shits about them. An unfair world, where he’s got to hide and
pretend to be rough to survive. An unfair world where she waits by the phone
that won’t ring and prepares a confession she will never make. An unfair world,
where she calls the shots and he knows it, and neither care, because among all
the unfairness, when he submits to her, when he lays back, arching his neck and
letting her ride at her own pace, the unfairness dims into pleasure, and
pleasure dims into acceptance.
They’re both
strays, in their own ways, but while he seeks someone to guide along the way,
someone to give him a purpose to live by, she sits back and tries not to be
drown in the conflicting way of leadership. It’s just sex, it’s just charity,
it’s just release and it’s just perfect. She hates being in charge, she’s just
not a leader. He knows she’s not a leader, but he follows her anyway. She could
order it, and he would kill for her, and it’s frightening and wrong and just
fucked up, but it’s the hand she was dealt: she will play with it. She’s not as
strong as he needs her to be, she’s not as powerful or imposing and deep down
she feels she’s degradating him whenever she touches him, quietly guiding him
back to her room.
But she knows,
deep down, that if being uxorious is what it takes for her to accept him, he’ll
do it. And she’ll take that, for whatever it’s worth.