[2 fics -- HanaKimi drabble and FMA Trisha/Hoenheim]
Sooo. Before I dive into the, uh, 47 drabbles I have waiting for me, I wanted to get a couple of things done.

First, a short Hanazakari no Kimitachi E (For You in Full Blossom) drabble, for beckymarie, who's had a hellish week and just needed some Umeda/Akiha.

The Two-Step
HanaKimi
Umeda-sensei/Akiha
No real rating, except mild m/m content.


"I don't even like you," Umeda told him, eyeing Akiha with a disgusted look.

Akiha shrugged, a hint of a smile lingering still at the corner of his lips, looking down to hide whatever expression in his eyes; Umeda would be damned if he'd look for any actual sadness there. "Well, I know that."

"You never give up, do you," Umeda grumbled, slamming one hand down on the table that Akiha'd spread his photographic equiptment out on. "You never leave me alone, even when I ask you to. What the hell's with setting up shop in my office -- I've got actual medical work to do here, you know!"

Akiha laughed a bit nervously. "Well, they did hire me to do the school yearbook photography, and couldn't get me an office--"

"What do you want from me?" Umeda demanded. "This?"

The kiss was sudden, jarring, inexpected. Akiha didn't move away from it for all that, snorting startled air through his nose, one hand coming up to bunch in the front of Umeda's shirt.

Umeda slowly leaned back. "That, Akiha?" He found himself looking to one side, glaring more than anything else.

"No," Akiha said slowly. After a moment, he smiled again. "But it's a start."


***

...and FMA fic. :) GOOSHY SAPPY OMG SMUTTY FMA fic. XD; THIS one is entirely for the darling nekokoban (who also wrote some fantaaastic Roy and Hawkeye friendship fic today, up in her LJ!), because Trisha/Hoenheim is one of her series OTPs, and, yeah. <33 for teh WhiteCat, I hope you enjoy. [squooshyhug]

Exposure
Fullmetal Alchemist
Trisha/Hoenheim
Explicit male/female sexual content, spoilers for FMA episode 45


He'd never thought that it would be the hardest part.

Hoenheim had confessed to her already, naturally; he wouldn't have gone so far to propose if he hadn't explained the situation. She could be in danger; Dante wasn't the sanest person in the world, and powerful -- far too powerful. His first homunculus, Envy, was out there somewhere, and Envy could be as dangerous as Dante if he thought Hoenheim was straying -- more so, in fact, because Dante was too self-focussed, and Envy could only think of himself relative to others.

But he loved Trisha, and the days had worn on without changing, and she was waiting -- it had hurt, how patient she'd been, sitting in her swing, on the picnics, going about her house. The love in her eyes hurt -- and ached as well, stirring up physical desires he'd long since thought his body had forgotten and which he wasn't sure he could act on any longer, not while the rot still spread. So when he had proposed, it had all spilled forth: The truth -- old, dead, rotten -- and the dangers, how she could be hurt for associating with him, tortured, killed, how--

"Ah," she'd said, and her voice was gentle. "So that's what you've been in such pain for, all this time?" She had put her warm hands to his face, curled them there. "I thought you'd been trying to work up the courage to tell me you were leaving."

"I never want to leave," he told her with an honesty born of relief and pain, though he knew he would have to, soon enough. Ten years, perhaps. It might be enough. "Would you marry me?"

He thought she had the most beautiful smile in the world.

And so they'd been married, and the preparations had gone well enough; he'd had to fit his own suit so nobody would see his body, and Pinako, Rizenbul's lioness, had taken care of Trisha.

The ceremony itself had passed quickly, enough that he almost wished he'd been able to take more time and remember it better later, but it was impossible to have any real regrets. Trisha's relatives hadn't come, but she didn't seem to mind, her smile never fading. His hands had been jittering as he'd slid the ring on her finger, but her smile had been so bright, beautiful, and she'd twisted her hands to catch his as he began to pull back,t wined her fingers with his.

"I do," he'd whispered, and she'd murmured the same back, eyes bright and voice thick.

The kiss was the first deep one he'd had with her, and it was soft, warm, wet, heart-wrenchingly inexperienced. She'd folded against him, hands twining behind his neck, and maybe only a group of twelve villagers had come, and all for Trisha, but they'd been cheering despite all that.

And now this.

He had to close his fists on his jacket's lapels to stop his hands from shaking harder. She was watching him, seated still-clothed on her bed, and he couldn't help but hesitate; he'd told her, but that was different from seeing it. The rot hadn't spread too far yet, but it was still unpleasant, black curled flesh and wet redness with thin white and yellow streaks running through, and he knew he smelled of the sickly-sweet scent of rotting meat.

"Hoenheim?" she asked, looking up at him, waiting. As always.

"Yes," he answered, steeling himself, and stripped his shirt off.

Trisha's eyes widened as they combed over him. "You're gorgeous," she breathed, and he felt himself flush, even as her eyes fastened on the mark on his shoulder. It was small now, about the size of the gap when he touched thumb to forefinger, but it would grow.

She rose, placed her fingers just under the edges of it. "Does it hurt terribly?"

It leaked very slightly, and he hid a wince. "It's not so bad," he said, then lowered his voice and confessed, "my back and legs are worse."

Her gaze was intent. "Let me see."

He had to close his eyes, not see her expression, as he unfastened his pants and fumbled them down. Her hand closed warm on the least-damaged of his hips, and stroked.

"Hoenheim?"

"Yes?" He swallowed, opening his eyes again to meet her gaze.

"Please, kiss me." She put her other hand on his cheek, eyes wide, and how could he resist? He wrapped both arms around her, tugging her against him. He kissed her lips as she gasped, until they parted for him, until he could tease her tongue into his mouth. Small nervous noises came from her throat until he released her to breathe, and she leaned against him, rested her cheek against his chest.

He wet his lips, as he held her close, tucking his chin against the top of her head. "I'd understand," he began, awkwardly, "if you didn't want to ...consummate the marriage. I, well, it's been a long time now, and my body's like this. I'm just happy you love me."

Trisha took a step back, and another, and raised her hands to the back of her dress. He watched her, helpless to move forward but unwilling to turn away, as she unfastened buttons. The dress slid off her shoulders, and to her waist, and she was bare under there, skin perfect.

"I'd like to," she said, more than a little shy. "With you. You're my husband now, and that's what I wanted. You. In every way, Hoenheim."

"Even like this?" He gestured at himself.

Her cheeks pinked, even as her gaze turned slightly naughty. "Well, you don't look damaged there--"

"Trisha!" He laughed even as he tried to sound scandalized, and she laughed as well; it seemed to give her whatever courage she needed to shimmy out of her dress the rest of the way. He swept her off her feet before she'd had a chance to step out of the puddled dress and she squeaked as he lifted her in his arms. She seemed so small like this, young at nineteen, naked but for her wedding garter, ring, and panties.

"I love you," he whispered as he laid her down on the bed, and as he slid her panties off, again: "I love you."

She smiled up at him, unashamed of her nudity, and reached up to twine her arms around his shoulders, careful of the rotting spots, and pulled him down against her. "I love you too," she whispered back, kissing his lips and patterning her kisses across his cheeks and chin. "Hoenheim..."

He took his time; she was laid out before him like a gift, and he thought he could worship her like this, kissing her breasts as she gasped, legs spreading to his hand, and he curled his tongue around her nipple as a finger pressed into her. Her skin tasted like soap and garden scents, and he drank it in, mouthing wherever he could reach, and as she moaned her way to orgasm he looked up at her and watched her face and realized that it was all he could taste, soap and garden and Trisha, and no rot at all.

Trisha relaxed slowly against the bed, limbs loose, and he smiled at her, earned a dazed smile back, then slid down to lower his head to her.

She jerked at the first touch of his mouth and he glanced up at her, muttered: "Okay?"

One of her hands came to the top of his head. "It's good," she murmured. "Your beard tickles..."

He laughed. "Sorry, Tri," he said, and mouthed at her again, felt her fingers clench in his hair.

She was so sensitive, so much more so than the other women he'd had, relievingly different from Dante. And open to this, not demanding to know what he was doing, just letting him do as he wished, her own hands tight against his head until her hips jerked and she groaned, low and satisfied, and he felt he could take the time to prop his chin on her hip. She smiled again, hazy, and tugged lightly on the strands of hair she still had wound between her fingers.

"Come on," she whispered. "It's all right. I'm ready."

Hoenheim crawled up her body until they were face to face, and leaned his weight on one arm to look at her. She surged up, kissing him deeply, and made a soft noise at the taste of herself in his mouth.

"Tri?" He spread his fingers against her cheek, kissed her again, deeper, needy; it had been a long time he'd felt a hot rush of desire like that, curling in his body and making his head throb. "It might hurt a little."

"I know." Her smile was wry. "My friends are doctors, you know. But that's fine. It's you."

He shuddered as he sank into her, and ran a hand down her side in an attempt to soothe her as she tensed up, her voice catching in her throat. "Relax," he murmured low, holding still and stroking her side, over and over. "It's all right, Tri. It's fine."

"Mm," she agreed, after a long moment, legs rising to bracket his hips. "It's, ah -- it's fine." She licked her lips, then shifted up against him, shivering. "It aches, but it's not -- not in a bad way. It's okay if you want... want to move."

It was tentative when he did, shifting back slowly before moving forward again, barely more than a centimeter. She reacted as if it were more, harder, her breath wooshing out and head falling back, and he kissed her throat, soft.

Her hands came to his shoulders, holding on, and she moaned when he picked up the pace, letting them slide down his back. She avoided the rotting parts, he could tell by the feel of it -- but it was less that her fingers were flinching away and more that she was sliding them past, carefully avoiding them, as if mapping them out to remember where they were without seeing them.

"Tri?"

"I don't want to hurt you," she said, breathless.

He buried his face in her shoulder and moved, and she cried out. "You can't hurt me," he whispered, thickly.

Sliding a hand between them, he rubbed at her clit, fingers working fast as he moved; she was warm and wet and soft and he felt overwhelmed, like the greatest transmutations would do to him, lost, and she shivered instantly, jerking up, like that's all she'd been waiting for.

Helpless, he pressed into her hard and came, gasping out her name into her throat, body still caught up in slow rolling movements.

As aftershocks faded, he managed to lift his head and smile at her, found her sleepy-eyed and smiling back. He slid back and out of her and she whimpered, the sound caught in her throat, then sighed and smiled again, reaching up to touch his cheek.

He wrapped an arm around her and rolled, so he was on his back and she was cuddled against his chest.

Trisha laid her head against his chest, listening to the thrum of his heart. "Thank you," she murmured, voice heavy.

"No," he whispered to her. "Thank y--"

"Don't ever doubt," she continued, her cheek rubbing slowly against his chest, "that you make me happier than anything or anyone ever has."

He held her closer, eyes closing. For a moment, he thought of Dante, who he'd thought he'd loved once, back when he was young and foolish and beauty and desire and respect had seemed to be the same thing. There was a difference.

"You're the first person I've ever loved," he whispered to her, "and I will love you for the rest of my life, long as it may be."