murder of crows

In The Dark, All Men Are The Same

In the dark, all men are the same.

It doesn't matter if they're short or tall, wide or thin; a penis is a penis, and a woman is a woman. Hands spread thighs; lips wandered in dark over terrain unseen, even as shoulders pushed legs up, high, kicking slightly with each pass of a exploratory tongue or a hungry, suckling mouth.

Winry wasn't sure about what it was about the dark that made it intense; maybe it was the lack of sight, the need to focus on feel—the anonymity of it all. Her lover could have been anyone; Edward or Alphonse Elric, Roy Mustang, Ling Yao. Sometimes behind her mind's eye, where she admitted to herself that all of these men were attractive, it was any one of these people.

Alphonse's hands were gentle, fingers dipping into slickness to teasingly coax arousal. Roy's skill at cunnilingus was legendary in three districts. Ling liked to flip her over onto her belly, kiss down her spine, spread her knees apart, and fuck her silly from behind. She could have any one of them a night, or even all of them. Sometimes she did, too—Roy's head between her legs, Ling's hands on her breasts.

But it was always Edward, with his alien hands—one soft, one hard—that made her scream the most; the one that rose against her in fevered urgency and murmured her name in a rush as they coupled, tangled in the sheets of her Rush Valley bed until she wasn't sure who anyone was, including herself.

She stayed in the arms of whichever lover she'd chosen in her head, and drifted to sleep, senseless and sedate, she awoke to the same man—the man she loved and adored above all others, and was satisfied.

Who needed those other guys, anyway? She had a man better then the lot of them combined.