FMA -- But Not Buried This Time, Chapter 7
Title: But Not Buried This Time
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed (though mostly just Ed vs. snow)
Rating: R
Word Count: 95,000 (9,340 in this bit)
Warnings: language; gore; violence; snow; suffering; AU from end of Brotherhood; eventual explicit smut
Summary: Once Ed decides that he is categorically not going to rot on the Drachman tundra, dragging his ass out of the jaws of death is actually pretty easy. ...except when it's not. At all. Which is most of the time.
Author's Note: SORRY THIS IS LATE! I've been in cosplay hell. I'll be emerging from cosplay hell to go to SVCC next weekend, so drop me a line if you're going to be there! Also sorry that this chapter cuts off in an even worse place than the previous… >__>' But I promise I'll finish it up for good in the next chapter, which will finally be the last. XD
BUT NOT BURIED THIS TIME
CHAPTER 7
The flitting of the-what? Urgency? Desperation? Pure fucking heat?-in Ed’s stomach won’t stop, and it won’t subside, and he really fucking hopes this shit is normal.
Something about the way his shoulders tighten up must telegraph some sort of message to Roy, though, because the fucker’s kissing him again-a kiss like the whole world falling, and Ed would know-
And then they’re stretched out on the floor-or Ed’s stretched out on the floor, and Roy’s kneeling over him, one arm under his back, so he arches it to keep his weight from cutting off Roy’s stupid circulation, and-
When his hips hit Roy’s, it’s like being electrocuted, and the breath he’d been trying to gasp in practically crackles as it evaporates.
Just like that-just like lightning from a clear fucking sky; like the inevitable fucking transfer of energy; like mutable fucking plasma straight through-he’s so damn hard he can’t resist the impulse to arc his spine a little higher and grind his hips on Roy’s, and-
Well, shit, he’s not the only one fucking eager for it, unless all the tactile nerves in his pelvic region have suddenly taken up deliberate deception as a side job.
It’s a fucking relief, honestly-that Roy’s every bit as primed and fucking ready; that Central’s resident smooth fucking bastard makes a faint noise in the back of his throat and starts panting like a dog into the side of Ed’s neck, fingers tightening in his hair. It’d be fucking humiliating to be the only one who wanted this so much he can’t even fucking help himself.
“Sorry,” Roy says, which makes about zero fucking sense. “It’s-it’s been-a while, and-I may have-contemplated this situation-previously-in some detail-”
“…the fuck?” Ed chokes out, partly just to shut him up. “Are you-apologizing?”
Roy pauses, and his hot breath rippling across Ed’s throat goes to battle with the immense fucking awkwardness, resulting in a bizarre, halfway-totally-fucking-turned-on impasse.
“Yes,” Roy says. “Sor-”
“You’re-” This is the dumbest word known to man, but his brain just keeps fucking spinning, and he can’t think of another. “You’re seducing me, and you’re-apologizing for-enjoying it?”
Roy’s eyelashes brush his cheek as the dumbass asshole piece of shit blinks four times in a row. “Well-no. I was apologizing for being horny as hell when you only just scraped through another canyon of catastrophe, and you’re probably injured far more than you’re letting on, a-”
“Your priorities are fucked, Mustang,” Ed says.
Roy draws back enough to grin at him-wearily, but there’s a glimmer of real delight in those endless fucking eyes. “I don’t think I can argue with that.”
“That’s a first,” Ed says. He glowers. With significance. “You know what else oughta be fucked?”
“My dear Edward,” Roy says, and the glimmer’s gone rogue comet again, and it’s slicing through the atmosphere, melting with the heat and the fucking friction, and its trajectory is unmistakable. “Whatever do you mean?”
Ed grits his teeth to stop himself from grinning back. “Could you do me a huge fucking favor and shut the fuck up and fuck me already?”
Roy laughs, which is not especially encouraging, actually. “Are you sure you want to? I think you could have concentrated a few more iterations of the word ‘fuck’ into that sentence, which would have been much more convincing as far as your intentions g-”
Ed reaches for him-somewhat indiscriminately-and ends up grabbing his ear as a handhold to drag him in and kiss him again, biting his bottom lip hard this time.
The way a shaky moan shivers up from the center of Roy’s chest, resonating up his throat and then outward through the both of them, ignites something in the pit of Ed’s stomach, and his heart just keeps trilling like it’s sounding an alarm. Maybe it is. Maybe this is what he’s been trying to talk himself out of all along, in some weirdly prescient kind of way-this particular vulnerability; this exchange of power. Maybe some part of him always realized that once he let it start, it’d be way the fuck over, and he wouldn’t stand a chance.
Roy peels off his fucking coat, and the sling gets all tangled, and the bastard starts apologizing again, and then he looks positively fucking tickled when Ed glares at him some more. The dizzying rattle of Ed’s heart makes it impossible for him to keep track of time; maybe it really does take a million years for Roy to draw the sleeve off of him, helping lift him off the floor and holding him a little tighter when his weight shifts and makes him wobble; maybe it really is impossibly slow as Roy drags the heavy woolen fabric down his back.
Ed’s heart jitters up into his throat and just-hangs there, practically fucking vibrating.
Roy’s mouth traces up the side of his neck to his ear, and then there’s another warm breath ghosting across his skin, and he shivers, and shivers again, but it’s not cold, and that’s weird as shit.
“Are you all right?” Roy whispers right into the shell of his fucking ear, so soft but so honey-voiced that it’s agonizing.
And Ed-
He is. He is; he knows he is; he knows he’s going to be fine; it’s just that if he lets this happen to him instead of participating-instead of being in control of it-he can tell it’s going to drown him.
“Shit,” he forces out around the throbbing weight of his heart, and the throbbing pull of his guts and his groin. “‘All right’? Settin’ a pretty low standard, Mustang.”
Roy draws back enough to make sure Ed sees that the concerned look hasn’t been assuaged by his latest brilliant fucking sally, and Ed rides that shift in power-he flattens his hand on Roy’s chest and pushes to part them just enough that he can get his fingers working on the buttons of Roy’s shirt.
His hand’s shaking. Fuck this shit. He can do it; he knows he fucking can; it’s not a big deal-
Roy’s mouth travels up his neck again, feather-light, and the tickle sends another tremble through him.
“Edward,” Roy says, soft-low and fucking devastating.
“If you’ll fucking excuse me,” Ed says, fighting a particularly stubborn buttonhole to wrench the stupid little fucking pearlescent disc free of its fucking confines, like they all deserve to be; “I’m trying to undress you here.”
“Edward,” Roy says again, and his hands lift, and his fingertips skate across Ed’s cheekbones, settling on his temples, smoothing back his hair; and it’s the fucking gentleness in all of it that makes Ed’s traitorous fucking hands stop once and for all, and Ed looks up at him and scowls with everything he’s got.
It’s not much. It’s not much because he doesn’t have a whole lot left.
“Edward,” Roy says, because apparently the third time’s the fucking charm; his voice just keeps-deepening, thickening, like hot syrup. Like fucking-cordial. Wine. Intoxicating as hell and a dozen times more dangerous than Ed knows how to deal with, because this is an uncharted playing field, and fuck knows how the game’s supposed to go.
“What?” Ed says.
Roy cups his face in both hands and waits until Ed stops squirming, looking right the fuck into his eyes.
“Trust me,” he says.
“I fucking do,” Ed says-blurts out, really; say has this connotation like he intends to speak, like he thought it through, like he knows what’s going to emerge from the tragic depths of his fucking brain when he opens his stupid mouth. “You know I do. I always have.” Well. “…almost. I almost-always have.” Roy’s eyebrow is rising at the same time as his arm guides Ed’s torso down onto the carpet again, which is a really confusing opposition further complicated by the way Ed’s heart keeps fucking banging at his ribs. “I mean-at least-eighty percent of the time. Eight out of ten’s not bad. That’s a passing gra-ahh, holy fuck-”
“That’s more like it,” Roy murmurs, kissing softly at the teeth marks he just fucking left on the side of Ed’s neck.
“You are a fuckin’ dog,” Ed says, and his heart’s beating even fucking faster, but-lighter, less intensely, less urgently, less like panic and more like-
More like a chemical high. More like adrenaline. More like the fight of his life-the best fight of his life.
“Mm,” Roy says, breathing across his throat, dragging his tongue, and fuck-
“Or a cannibal,” Ed chokes out.
Roy’s eyes are fucking live coals as he looks up through his eyelashes. “I won’t consume anything you’re not happy to part with.”
Ed hears a weird, wet sort of noise and then realizes-way too fucking late-that he just made it trying to gasp in enough breath to whimper with.
He’s the Fullmetal Alchemist. He doesn’t fucking whimper-not at the immortal monsters or the souls bound to sword-wielding armor or the crushing weight of the whole fucking world or someone else’s bloodbath of a war or the fucking apocalypse-and he’s not going to do it for Roy goddamn Musta-
One of Roy’s hands is still tangled up in his hair, and the other one just closed around his dick and started massaging meaningfully.
At least Ed’s moved on from whimpers to groans. That’s much more appropriate. Or-something. Or-fuck, that bastard is so fucking good at this it’s like a miracle-disaster-
Roy grinds the heel of his hand inward just hard enough that it hurts in a way that’s fucking transcendent.
Ed tries to tell him so and ends up with another guttural noise, but based on the way Roy laughs softly and nips at Ed’s left collarbone, apparently it gets the message across.
Well, two can play at that fucking game, and two basically have to, or else this is gonna be sort of fucked up and weird, right?
He bucks his hips up as hard as he can, aiming right for Roy’s to press the bastard’s hand in between their bodies-and God, that feels even better than he fucking thought-
And it’s wild, because he never had the slightest idea how fucking heady it is, coaxing noises like that-noises like the ones Roy’s making, low and shameless and shivery; noises like the ones that keep tearing their way up and out of his throat no matter how hard he tries to swallow them for the sake of something like fucking dignity-out of a person like Roy.
A person like Roy Mustang, who’s so fucking cool and collected and commanding at the worst of times-who plays poker in his sleep and chess with his eyes closed and never gives a single fucking article of his plans away-
Affecting him like this is dizzyingly good and hot as fucking hell.
That’s what Ed wants. That’s just about all he wants right this second-the heat. The heat of his own blood; of the fire; of the room; of Roy’s skin and eyes and mouth and hands and fingertips, and the choked-off hiss he makes when Ed scrabbles for a grip on the shirt he was halfway through undoing and hitches his body up to savor the unmistakable, undeniable, indescribable outline of Roy’s erection pushing at his pants-
And if it’s slutty to let his head fall back and his eyes fall shut and rut hard against that pressure with his own needy, aching fucking dick, then that’s a stake he’ll burn at-all the way to ash. Nobody who’s ever felt like this would blame him; nobody who’s ever gripped the fabric of another person’s clothes and given over to a cresting tide of pleasure so immense that it defies description altogether-
“Hell,” Roy whispers, fighting to catch his breath, and Ed’s heart skips another several beats, because he did that-he’s responsible for Roy Mustang struggling to get the oxygen for the blood that’s filling up his dick. “Have I told you in so many words that you’re so beautiful I can’t believe you’re real?”
“Save it for some theater date,” Ed gets out.
“Are you volunteering-” Roy’s hands should be fucking illegal; the graze of them up Ed’s sides might as well be a fucking drug. “-to accompany me to-” He drags in a breath so shaky Ed that understands the joy of smirking all at once. “- the theater?”
“Depends,” Ed says. To be fair, it takes him a full five seconds to muster up some spare saliva for the rest. “Show have sword fights?”
Roy’s whole body undulates against his-sinuous and still-too-hot and so fucking perfect there just aren’t adequate descriptors in this language, or probably in any other that Ed’s ever heard. “I’d-wager I can manage that.”
In the interests of discovering-nearly fucking impossible fucking thought-if this shit can get even better, Ed starts hauling one-handed at the buttons on Roy’s shirt again. “And you gotta buy me dinner.”
Roy grins against his throat, then drags his teeth across the skin again, and grins a little wider at the way Ed squirms. “If I can afford it.”
“Don’t t-tell me-fuck-”
Politely, Roy waits for him to continue.
Less politely, Roy keeps sucking on Ed’s collarbone while he waits.
At least Ed won’t have to explain this to Al, because Al already knows exactly what-well, who-the fuck he’s doing right now.
The inevitable checkup with Winry’s gonna be interesting, though.
Ed wrestles about three-quarters of a real breath into his lungs. “Don’t f-fuckin’ tell me they don’t pay you enough to take a kid out to dinner once or twice.”
Roy’s hands are parting Ed’s shirt much more efficiently than Ed was managing the other way around-the better for the bastard’s tongue to skate down his sternum, apparently; the heat of Roy’s breath on the damp trail coaxes another groan out of Ed’s well-attended throat. “How about once or twice a week-until either you get bored of it, or the money runs out?”
The throb of Ed’s insatiable dick is distracting as hell. “D’you like this shirt?” he asks.
Roy pauses in his progress down Ed’s chest just long enough to smirk up at him.
“Not especially,” he says, fixing both hands on Ed’s hips and shifting up-making sure their hips brush-so that Ed will have more leverage to abuse it. “Go ahead.”
Ed has to twist his whole torso to reach over to his right arm where it’s splayed out on the carpet, with the sling still tangled around the wrist, so he can smack his palms together and then press the left one to the goddamn stupid shirt unjustly hiding Roy’s chest from him.
Blue light flares, and the shirt goes all to ribbons, and the ribbons slither off of Roy’s skin and coil up on the carpet in a pile.
If Ed’s not mistaken-and hell, on a hormone high like this, he probably wouldn’t notice if the roof caved in, so he could certainly be wrong-Roy’s eyes just darkened a little bit.
Ed might not be the only guy in the room who finds the judicious application of skillful alchemy unreasonably hot.
Ed tilts his head towards the shirt he just stripped off in a painfully literal sense of the word. “I can fix it later.”
The gleam in Roy’s eyes liquefies what’s left of the organs in his abdomen. “I don’t give a fuck.”
Ed swallows, which is a bit dangerous, since he doesn’t know where his spit’s going to end up now that he doesn’t have organs anymore. His hand’s getting unsteady again, but it’s the sheer force of the fucking eagerness this time, and drawing his fingertips down Roy’s chest assuages the worst of it right off the bat. “You better give at least one.”
“Don’t worry,” Roy says, and he runs the tip of his tongue along the edge of his teeth as he starts to grin with volcanic fucking heat. “I’m holding several in reserve for you.”
Ed wants to say something seriously fucking witty.
What comes out is “Fuck.”
Roy’s hands are roving all over his body yet again, and there is no greater torment in the fucking world, so he shuts his eyes and lets everything go limp to focus on enjoying it. “What’s the magic word?”
Ed cracks an eye open to target the snarl. “Now,” he says.
The glimmer turns to a twinkle while Roy laughs, which is not the fucking point, so Ed curls his fingers around the fly of the bastard’s slacks and sweeps one inside the waistband of Roy’s underwear-just far enough to graze his dick, and the way the surrounding muscles jump all at once, and the laugh strangles right into a moan-
“Point taken,” Roy gasps out as Ed tries to figure out whether it’s easier to undo the button or just shove his hand inside.
Ed’s so rarely been accused of trepidation that the shove-the-whole-hand-in strategy was probably the only option all along. “You always spend this much time talking when you fuck?”
It’s-weird, sort of. Having another dude’s throbbing, straining, searingly hot cock in your hand. But when he gently starts stroking, Roy’s eyes widen and then squeeze shut-and then he hangs his head and makes a faint noise like he’s dying, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“God, yes,” Roy grits out. “Right-the fuck-like that.”
This is a quick-draw fucking high-stakes game that Ed’s never played before, but he’ll be damned if anybody ever calls him a slow learner.
The trailing automail arm makes it sort of a pain, but he can still arch his back up enough to breathe out into the shell of Roy’s ear.
“Yes, sir,” he says.
Roy-
-groans loudly, grins recklessly, laughs breathlessly, half-turns to smear a damp kiss on Ed’s cheek, and then plants one hand on the carpet to support himself while he unfastens his slacks in the time it takes Ed to blink and then shoves them down to his knees.
“You are,” Roy says, panting more than just a little now, “too damn extraordinary by half.”
Ed tunnels his fingers the way he usually likes it and starts pumping Roy’s dick real slow. “Which half?”
“A conceptual half,” Roy says, and the coherency of it is sort of belied by the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the tremble of his elbow where he’s holding himself up. “Half again on top of your whole. That must be-” A low, uneven groan that quickens Ed’s blood-and thickens it, with such violent fucking suddenness that he almost can’t see for a second. “Must-be-the explanation for your-size-”
Ed stops ministering to the goddamn motherfucking traitor he’d been planning to sleep with until just now. “My what?”
And Roy is laughing again, like this is the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him, and all he wants it to aim that smug-ass fucking shit-eating grin at Ed and wait for the fireworks for the rest of his life.
“If you were bigger,” Roy says, “the universe just wouldn’t be able to hold you.”
Ed’s body’s so fucking confused. Between the sex and the rage, he’s not even sure what the heat burgeoning everywhere is coming from anymore.
“You better be the best fucking lay in Central by a long shot,” he says, “or I am gonna do things I don’t even wanna talk about to your balls.”
Roy clicks his tongue and shakes his head, and if Ed couldn’t see the pulse pounding desperately in his throat, it’d be ass-kicking time. “Communication is key to a healthy relationship, Edward.”
“How about this?” Ed asks, hooking his right leg around Roy’s hips to drag his criminally unattended groin all the way up Roy’s thighs and then against his cock before letting his own weight draw him back down. “Fuck me right this goddamn second, or I’m moving to Xing.”
“Surely,” Roy says, and there’s the purr again, and the fucking eyelashes, and that shouldn’t fucking work, but suddenly Ed can’t even hope to breathe; “after all this waiting, you’re hungry enough for an appetizer before we get to the main course?”
Ed scowls as darkly as he’s capable of, but his hand’s got a mind of its fucking own, and it’s tracing one fingertip real slow around the edge of Roy’s huge fucking cauterized-impalement scar in a way that probably qualifies as “loving” no matter what expression’s on his face.
“I didn’t order a fucking appetizer,” he says. “’Cause sometimes that just slows ’em d-”
Ed’s fast, sure-everybody knows it. It’s the reason he’s alive; basically always has been.
But Roy Mustang is a legend.
And he’s got Ed’s pants down around his thighs and a hot, hot, so fucking hot mouth around Ed’s dick in a matter of a second and a half, and-
Fucking hell-
Practically all that Ed can see through the fucking sunburst is silky dark hair trailing over skin-his skin, his hipbones; and those incredible fucking hands spread themselves on one thigh each and pin him to the carpet as the sheer fucking power of it tears on through him, and his spine tries to curl back to let it out-
Oh, God, he likes the way it feels trying to writhe and knowing Roy will hold him down.
And Roy knows he knows it, because he makes a sound like sobbing, and his hips strain hard for freedom, and Roy’s grip only tightens, and those fingers start to dig into his ass-
And it is absolutely fucking unreal how fucking sublime it feels-Roy’s mouth around him, too-hot and so wet and close; the press of his tongue is staggering, and if Ed had any nerves left to electrify, they’d be quitting their day jobs to get in on this-
And Roy shifts in closer-takes him deeper-and swipes his tongue slowly against the base of Ed’s cock, then up along the whole length of it to flick just the tip of it just gently at the head, then down again-so fucking far down, enveloping him completely, sucking softly at first and then harder, and swallowing so that the rings of muscle in his throat just fucking ripple all around Ed’s skin, and-
Too late he notices that his hand’s clenched in Roy’s hair, probably too tight, but the bastard hasn’t quit or complained yet, so maybe-?
Roy swallows, swallows, bobs his head, jacks the pressure up from magnificent to perfect-unbearable with the inward-upward motion of his tongue-
“Fuck,” Ed gasps out, and he doesn’t even recognize the sound of his own damn voice-who the fuck is this kid all faint and reedy like he’s never even talked before? “Fuck-Roy-God, Roy-I-”
They should ban him from sex forever for even thinking about uttering such a fucking cliché.
To be fair, though, it’s not exactly like he had any brain cells left to think about it.
And Roy-
Just-
Looks up at him through the ragged curtain of gorgeous dark hair, and his eyes are so fucking hot and bright and deadly with a challenge and an unformed grin that Ed just can’t-
Not-
Come so hard he blacks out, then whites out, then wakes up gasping on the floor with sharply-burning tears digging into the corners of his eyes.
Roy’s sitting up, one hand smoothing gently up and down Ed’s left thigh, like he doesn’t even fucking see the automail, and why does that make the half-formed tears sting even worse?
It’s a good damn thing Roy looks so fucking self-satisfied that Ed forgets to be upset about anything.
“The fuck did you learn how to do that?” Ed coughs up, because it seems like somebody ought to say something before Roy just eye-smolders them both out of existence. He’s not even sure what interrogative word’s supposed to go at the front of the question, but since pretty much all of them are relevant, it doesn’t matter much.
“Academy,” Roy says, which answers the when and the where, at least. His tongue darts out to run along his upper lip. Ed can’t tell if he’s actually getting anything, but it’s hot as hell just contemplating the reality that Roy fucking Mustang just licked cum off of his dick.
And liked it.
“You think they’d open a spot if I tried to enroll?” Ed asks.
Roy’s thumbs trace simultaneously down along the creases where his thighs meet his hips.
“I think you should be home-schooled,” he says.
It’s sort of a pity Ed doesn’t have much breath left to laugh-but on the other hand, Roy’s ego doesn’t need the help.
“Mm,” Roy murmurs, leaning down to drag his mouth along the inside of Ed’s nerve-loaded knee, tugging Ed’s pants down a little further while he’s there; “I’ve been thinking of a lot of lesson plans.”
Ed can’t tell whether his body’s trying to shiver or to contort itself closer to Roy. It’d be hard to argue with either one. “Y-yeah? I’m into-practical demonstrations. H-hands-on learning and all that-” The tip of Roy’s tongue traces an aimless wavy line along the inside of his thigh, and his back arches, and the breath tears out of him in a single gasp. “-sh-shit. All that shit. Mustang.”
“Present and accounted for,” Roy says into his skin.
“Y’know,” Ed says, “I think I would’ve liked school a lot more if it-”
“If everyone got private tutoring,” Roy says, “it wouldn’t be special anymore.” He looks up slowly, and it’s funny that he’s so famous for his hands when his eyes are just as dangerous. “Are you ready for more?”
The thought that it might get better than this makes the pit of Ed’s stomach start to warm again-just like fucking that. “You bet your obnoxiously fine ass.”
“Mm,” Roy says, because he’s an asshole bastard piece of shit who seems to understand that every time he makes that noise, it’s worse; “that ought to be my line.”
“No more lines from you, remember?” Ed says. “You’re on line probati-fuck-”
Roy just folded Ed’s right knee up against his chest and started mouthing damply down the back of his thigh, which feels so fucking good Ed thinks he’s entitled to forget the rest of that sentence as his brain shorts out.
“I assumed you were moments away,” Roy says, and he nips, and Ed-hears a faint, high howl that clearly came from someone else- “From suggesting that I kiss your ass. So I thought I should oblige.”
Most of Ed’s vitals must be functioning, or he wouldn’t be able to feel the blood starting to beat with that specific kind of urgency again-light and faint, at first; a pattering, a fluttering, and then a tidal wave of heat.
“They give awards for biggest smartass at academy, too?” he manages to ask-which, he’d like the record to show, is really rather impressive when you’ve got Roy fucking Mustang smirking at you from between your legs.
“Several that were unofficial,” Roy says, and the smirk parts for a gleam of teeth, and the lining of Ed’s stomach catches fire again. “I won them all.”
“Shock of my fucking life,” Ed says.
Roy wraps one hand around each of Ed’s thighs and gazes at the way his fingertips dimple the flesh as he gradually tightens his grip. He looks like he just won an all-expenses-paid ticket to Paradise, and there’s no round-trip.
“Much as there is nowhere on this planet that I’d rather be,” he says, and Ed’s chest does a funny kind of clenching thing, “I did not plan this quite as far ahead as perhaps I should have, and I need to retrieve a couple things.”
Ed always knew he should’ve read one or two of those shitty romance books that Al likes. Maybe then he’d know how you’re supposed to sprawl seductively in a situation like this. The only kind of sprawling he’s got practice with is the kind that deliberately takes up as much of the bed as possible.
He takes a stab at an educated guess by stretching his arm up over his head, arching his spine, and twisting his hips-which feels great on top of probably looking okay, right up until a bit of cartilage in his shoulder pops louder than the fucking fire.
“Shit,” he manages, feeling his face heat up in the really-not-good kind of way. “Real sexy.”
Roy’s eyes don’t dull a fucking fraction, and they don’t waver from where they’re fixed on Ed’s.
“You’re damn right,” he says. He heaves a more-than-slightly-histrionic sigh, kisses Ed’s hipbone softly, and gets up, starting for the doorway. “Excuse me, my dear.”
“Your what?” Ed asks, but the combination of post-orgasm weakness and the lack of support from the right arm makes it difficult to lever himself partway upright. “Oh, no,” he calls after Roy’s retreating back, and he can read the fucking smugness in no more than the line of those damn shoulders. “None of that pet name shit. You hear me? I will end you.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Roy says, voice trailing down the hall, and…
And shit. He-Edward Elric, career fuckup, renowned life-destroyer, sinner extraordinaire-is lying half-naked on the carpet in Roy Mustang’s living room, basking in both the heat of the fireplace and the increasing likelihood that he’s about to get fucked into next week.
It’s almost good enough to blot out all the shit that got him here.
His hair’s already tangling like a motherfucker, but that’s a problem that can wait; he shoves it back out of his face and then hikes himself up on his one operable elbow.
This is the best place for them to do this shit after all, isn’t it? Damn Roy, realizing that right off the bat-realizing that this is where it started, in all the ways that count.
And he must know what he does to people-someone like Roy, whose whole long-game master-plan relies on his uncanny ability to read everyone around him and guide them in the direction that he wants. He must know what he does-what he’s capable of. He must have known that Ed would turn to putty in his fucking hands.
He must not mind.
He must be fucking serious.
Hopefully there’ll be some serious fucking, too.
Footsteps proceed back down the hall at a fairly precipitous rate, but then they pause in the doorway. Ed tries to make his cautious glance upward-to see how fucking stupid Roy thinks he is-look casual. Isn’t confidence supposed to be the kicker, or something?
Roy doesn’t look disgusted at all, though, unless he’s gotten way fucking better at acting since Ed left.
“You,” Roy says, “are so damn gorgeous it’s enormously inconvenient.”
“I dunno about this ‘gorgeous’ shit,” Ed says, “but I’ve been telling you I’m enormous for years.”
It is so fucking unfair how much hell that goddamn grin wreaks on Ed’s every last damn system. Roy Mustang ought to come with one of those fucking warning labels about how consumption poses a significant risk to all of your vitals and shit.
“Sorry about that,” Roy says, sauntering over. He catches up a red blanket and two of the throw pillows from the couch en route to where Ed is still valiantly attempting at a sexy sprawl. “I couldn’t hear you all the way down there.”
The roaring white silence is probably a bad sign. Did Ed just slip past the Gate for a second there?
“I can’t believe this,” a remnant of his voice remarks. “I’m gonna kill you and go to jail for murder before I ever get to lose my virginity.”
Roy crouches down next to Ed, head tilting as he grins again. “Can’t we multitask?”
“Hey, look at that,” Ed says, nodding to him. “Dead man talking.”
Roy shifts down onto one of his knees, bracing the hand not dragging half of the couch next to Ed’s head and leaning in to kiss him. Probably Ed should, like, bite the bastard’s lip for vengeance or something, but honestly it just feels too fucking nice.
“I think perhaps we should take care of your pressing virginity problem before any homicides occur,” Roy says.
“I think your problem’s more pressing right now,” Ed says, rolling far enough to cup his left hand around Roy’s groin, and-sure enough-the bastard’s still hard as hell, and his eyelids flutter as Ed squeezes gently.
“Mmmm,” Roy says. The fucker. “Touché.” He pushes his hips forward into Ed’s grip and then drops to both knees, which gives him better leverage to run one hand slowly down Ed’s side. “Hell. Didn’t even strip you properly; that’s a damn shame.” He draws the bottom of the paltry shirt currently protecting Ed’s torso from the unthinkable cold up slowly, kissing at the skin underneath. “To be fair, I was in a bit of a hurry.”
“Fuck,” Ed manages, which is about the best he’s probably going to be able to do between the heat of Roy’s dick in his hand and the heat of Roy’s mouth on his stomach.
The fabric rustles, swishing softly against his piqued fucking nerves, and Roy’s wet tongue makes him startle in the best way, and then-
A pause.
Silence.
“This is new,” Roy says, brushing just his fingertips along the edge of the scarring shit around the bullethole.
“Oh, yeah,” Ed says. “Funny story about that.”
Roy gives him a dark look. “Ah, yes. Getting shot is hilarious.”
“Shit happens,” Ed says.
Roy’s forehead furrows as he trails his index finger across the snarl of brand-new worm-white scar tissue with its shiny dead-rose-pink circumference. “Did you-when did this happen? Did you fix this?”
“That’s what you got the letter for,” Ed says. His guts start to cool down, and twist up, and-shit. “Can you-maybe give me grief about it later?”
Roy looks at him for a long, long moment, and Ed can almost feel the pages flipping underneath his fingers-several chapters of the volumes that the bastard doesn’t speak.
“Only if you promise you’ll sit still while I finally harangue you,” Roy says at last.
“I will if you feed me,” Ed says.
Roy smiles, and the shadow in his eyes recedes a little. “Deal.”
“Has to be good food, though,” Ed says. “What with the quitting and shit, I don’t get paid to listen to your stupid lectures anymore, s-oh, God-”
Roy has been doing that damn obnoxious thing he always does-that is, half-listening with an ever-so-slightly smug little smile, and then plotting and enacting his attack while his opponent waits in expectation of a rejoinder.
Well-if ducking down and nibbling at one of Ed’s hips counts as an “attack”, anyway. Ed doesn’t have the vocabulary for this shit.
He also can’t help fucking squirming as Roy shoves his shirt up practically to his shoulders and starts tracking up his chest-nipping and licking and lathing and just… lavishing every last fucking inch of his skin, savoring every muscle, and what the hell-?
He writhes a little harder, trying to get some traction to… well, shit-to something; Roy’s doing all the damn work. That’s not how it’s supposed to go, is it? It can’t be, the way people talk; so-
One of Roy’s hands closes around his wrist, pinning it over his head, and his breath catches so hard that he chokes on it.
Dredging a few words up from the fucking magma in the pit of his stomach is nearly impossible, but that’s sort of his trademark by now. “Would you just let m-”
“No,” Roy says, the tip of his tongue feather-light on one of Ed’s ribs, which is unfair, thank you very goddamn much. “You elected me as the curator of your education in the fine art of sex, and I intend to follow through.”
“Guess it’s good,” Ed chokes out as Roy’s mouth descends onto his skin again-stark-bright sparks of gorgeous pain from the teeth soothed instantly by the damp breath and the soft mouth, and if this is what it’s supposed to be like, how does anybody go around doing anything fucking else? “That you’ve got a-f-fuck-an-election fetish-”
Roy laughs, and the shiver of the air across Ed’s skin actually makes it worse, and his back arches, and the way Roy’s grip on his wrist tightens to hold him down-
Fuck.
“May I use that on my campaign posters?” Roy asks.
“You might get my vote that way,” Ed manages. “M-meant to tell you-ran into a lady in Riedbach w-who thinks you’re hot-” Roy’s tongue flicks over his nipple, and his hips jerk so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t fucking break anything. “-shit.”
“I am hot shit,” Roy says. He starts peeling the shirt off, carefully guiding it past Ed’s chin and over his head-and then leaves it as a muddle of fabric tangled around Ed’s arms, one of which he can’t even lift. “I am offended by the implication that her opinion of me was somehow exaggerated.”
Ed wants to laugh, but his breath is doing a funny thing where it just turns into steam the second it enters his lungs. “W-who’s implyin’ that?”
“Certainly not you, I hope,” Roy says, teeth grazing over his collarbone and then up his throat. “Or I might have to teach you some manners.”
The shiver that runs through Ed’s whole fucking body, head to toe-including the metal ones-is entirely involuntary, which surely means it shouldn’t count.
“Yeah?” he manages. “I mean-maybe you should-do that anyway.”
Roy’s eyes flick up to fix on his, and the hand not pinning his wrist to the carpet drags slowly down his side, fingertips roving.
“Do you think so?” he asks, in a voice like velvet-wrapped titanium.
Ed grits his teeth-you can’t not answer, when he talks like that; but it’s all a fucking power game, isn’t it? Trying to get Ed to admit to wanting something that he really shouldn’t but can’t help craving, and-?
Except then Roy ducks to kiss-with just a hint of a bite-at the side of his neck, right under his ear, body undulating upward over Ed’s as he levies his weight on pinning Ed’s arm.
“Next time?” he whispers.
And that-that pulses in his veins all the fucking harder, all the fucking faster; that’s a call to arms dissolved right into his very fucking blood.
Because that sounds like a promise.
And Roy doesn’t make those idly.
Roy doesn’t do anything idly.
Except dapple his fingertips along the edge of Ed’s hipbone, apparently.
“That was absolutely delightful,” Roy says, sounding ever so fucking faintly surprised.
Ed’s brain has long since shorted the fuck out.
No, wait-it-fizzled. Fritzed. Not ‘shorted’; God fucking forbid-
“What?” he manages.
“I just watched your pupils dilate when I said that,” Roy says. “It was absolutely sublime.”
Ed can’t help fucking groaning, and if it’s only sixty percent exasperation because it’s forty percent… something else… then…
Well, it’s not his fucking fault Roy’s like this-like a sunbeam and a slap to the face and a wet dream and a fucking revelation.
“Would you shut up?” he asks.
“Probably not,” Roy says, mouth gliding down his sternum again, and then down, and down- “Are you asking as a hypothetical because you’re planning to offer a bribe?”
“Some of us-” Ed has to pause to gasp for air as Roy’s fucking tongue ghosts down his inner thigh again. “-aren’t in-the fucking-military-for the kickbacks-”
“Just for the ass-kicking,” Roy says.
“Y-yeah,” Ed says. The ceiling in here is really-well, actually, it’s not really anything in particular. It’s a fucking ceiling. Dark wood beams and maybe some kind of stucco or something. He keeps swallowing, but his heart keeps bobbing back up into his throat and beating there, intently, as Roy’s breath sighs against the all-too-tender, still-too-sensitive skin.
Ed drags in a labored breath and lets it out slow and shuddering as Roy’s mouth hovers there-just the whisper of his tongue, like the slither of silk, favoring Ed’s thigh for another fraction of a second before it draws away.
Ed wins the fight for words this time: “You gotta stop that.”
“Stop what?” Roy murmurs, because he is the biggest, evilest, worst fucking bastard in the entire extended history of terrible bastards dating back to the dawn of man.
“Teasing me,” Ed grinds out, “you fucking-aah-”
He’d fully intended to finish that with something pithy and cutting and brilliant-right up until the point where the flat of Roy’s tongue glides slowly and deliberately up the underside of his dick.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Roy asks, and his voice is still like hot fucking butter, and Ed can’t bear it- “It looks like you’re enjoying it.”
“You’re not giving me much of a fucking-” His back arches off the floor, and the breath sears out of his lungs. “-choice, much of a fucking-choice-”
Roy’s sigh is soft and weirdly sweet, and there’s a tenor of a laugh beneath it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding like he really means it, even; like it’s true. “It’s just that you’re so-it’s such a privilege touching you at all.”
“Shut it,” Ed says. The effort of wedging his one working elbow underneath himself and lifting his torso enough to see the bastard’s face is, at least, distracting his attention from Roy’s mouth enough that he can almost think straight.
Roy, newly visible-
-grins.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” he asks. “I suppose I can still do quite a lot of damage with it closed.”
Ed lets his shoulders drop to the carpet and his head fall with them. He knows the cascade of his stupid hair will just about give Roy a heart attack, so that’s something. “Can’t believe I agreed to this.”
“Still time-” And there’s that fucking tongue again, light and delicate against the far-too-secret skin between his asshole and his dick, and holy-shit- “-to change your mind.”
It takes Ed a full two-second span to realize that he’s scraping both heels on the carpet like a feverish fucking animal, writhing with the effort of trying to pour some of the overwhelming heat inside him out.
“Fuck,” he says, faintly, and it sounds surprised even to his own ears.
“Getting there,” Roy says. “Patience, Edward.”
Bastard. Bastard knows, doesn’t he? Knows how many years Ed’s been dreaming of that voice, his name, firelight and a slow burn under every centimeter of his skin.
He makes some kind of a noise that averages the worst parts of an Oh and an Augh, and then his hips are rising from the floor again; he just can’t help it; can’t stop it; can’t make real words come.
Funny thing is, the time he accidentally learned what rimming was in the cafeteria, he thought it sounded like some special kind of fucking torture-miserable as shit for both parties, and disgusting and unsanitary to boot, and sure, he blushed redder than a fucking stoplight at sunset, and Havoc almost choked to death laughing at his expression, which at least was great insofar as it diverted everyone’s attention from Ed’s embarrassment, but-
But the thing is-
This feels like fucking heaven.
Well-
Damper, maybe; heaven’s supposed to have-clouds and shit, right? But this-
Just-
God-
The slick trajectory of Roy’s incomparable fucking tongue-just-dipping, sliding, probing, mapping-gently-either all the nerves in his body suddenly concentrated in that one fucking spot, or his whole system’s rapidly going haywire, and either way, it’s just so fucking good-
The absolutely fucking delicious torment abates for a second, and Roy’s voice rumbles, and Ed tries to blink the fucking stars out of his eyes long enough to listen.
“All right?” Roy asks.
“Again,” Ed pants out, “with the low fuckin’ standards, Mustang. You know who you are?”
“Most of the time,” Roy murmurs. “It’s a bit harder without you.”
“Well, now,” Ed says, fighting to sit up again so he can glare a little better, “it can be a bit harder with me, if you get my drift.”
Roy smiles at him, and one eyebrow arches slowly. “Is that your way of cordially requesting that I save the soppy declarations for another time and pay attention to the task at hand?”
Ed tries to focus on the sound of his breath hissing in and out past his teeth instead of on the excruciating throb in his guts, in his blood, in his groin.
“You ever seen me cordially request a fucking thing?” he asks.
“Aptly put,” Roy says.
Ed rolls his hips, which doesn’t do a whole lot for the boiling heat beneath his skin, but something’s gotta give.
“If you don’t want to-keep doing that,” he gets out, “tell me what the fuck you want me to do, okay?”
“I want you to keep lying there,” Roy says, running both tantalizingly warm open palms up and down Ed’s thighs, with another goddamn slowly-unfurling radiant fucking grin, “looking like you’re about to throttle me if I don’t hurry it up.”
“You say that-” Ed starts trying to wriggle free of all the stupid fucking clothes tangled up around his wrist; the automail’s like a hunk of lead, and the weight of it keeps trapping his other arm. “-like you think I’m above it.”
Roy pauses, and Ed can just see him considering the best way to phrase the joke.
Time for the heavy fucking artillery. Ed jerks his left arm free and lashes out with it before Roy can do the stupid fucking coy drawing-away bit again-and gets all five fingers curled in the silky black hair just behind his ear to make sure he can’t do it any time soon.
He leans in as close as he can without going cross-eyed staring at the bastard’s way-too-gorgeous, way-too-smug fucking face, and then he breathes against that talented mouth as softly as he dares.
“Would you just fuck me?” he says.
Roy’s knuckles graze along his cheek, down his neck-and settle on his inoperable metal shoulder.
“Is it hurting you?” he asks.
It’s really fucking difficult to take him seriously when he’s gazing at you through his eyelashes like that, but it’s sort of an important question, probably. Not as important as the one that Ed just asked, obviously, but he has to admit it’s sort of a nice thought. “Nah. Just getting in the way.”
He can’t quite see what Roy’s fingers are doing, and he can’t quite feel it, which is a totally bizarre set of circumstances, because somehow he knows from Roy’s face that there’s some adulatory fingertip-designs or some shit going on.
Roy’s eyes also dart towards the automail and then back up as he thinks real fucking hard about what he wants to say before he shares it with the class:
“Would it help to take it off?”
You know a picture lasts longer dies on Ed’s tongue and disintegrates. For the record, it tastes like crap. That’s probably what he gets for talking shit.
He swallows, which is extremely unpleasant, and then tries to search the nooks and crannies of Roy’s endless fucking stare for some kind of… something. A hint, a clue, the judgment, the rationale.
Roy gives him nothing to go on except a very slight, very soft little smile.
Bastard.
Ed makes a strong effort to clear his throat. “I-dunno. I mean, it’s sort of…” What? Scary? Humiliating? Disabling? Fuck. “…I guess it’d… get in the way less if it wasn’t… on.”
Oh, good. Now he sounds like a fucking moron on top of everything else. Who wouldn’t aspire to sitting ass-naked on Roy Mustang’s living room carpet, spouting stupid nonsense in answer to a perfectly reasonable question?
Well-relatively reasonable. It’d be a stretch to think Roy has ever been perfectly reasonable in his entire life.
But this time, he’s right, isn’t he? Wearing a sling and nothing else would be absolutely fucking ridiculous, and since it’s not like life is going to spark the fuck back into his arm and allow him any use of it, the most practical solution-especially since he doesn’t want to damage it any further, and he was really only wearing it this long so that he didn’t lose it-is to remove the fucking thing.
“Winry’ll need to work on it anyway,” he says, slowly, still watching Roy’s eyes for some kind of a sign. “So-I mean-”
“If it would make you uncomfortable,” Roy says, “forget I ever mentioned it.”
Ed eyes him. “Okay, sure. I’m real good at forgetting shit, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Roy has a special little laugh-sigh number just for him. It’s sort of cute. “The thought occurred to me.”
Ed steels himself, pun fully fucking intended, albeit tragically undelivered. “Look, just-yeah. Lemme just-”
It’s kind of tricky to do anything this close-up without elbowing Roy in the fucking nose, but he tries to shift and fumbles to get a grip on the latch for the shoulder-a maneuver complicated somewhat by the helpful fact that his stupid fucking hand just started shaking again, which is embarrassing, which-
“Edward,” Roy says softly, and the fingers curling around Ed’s are even softer.
He looks over at the fire-which is easier, for starters; and might help hide the worst of the fucking blood rushing to his cheeks, for bonus points.
“Ed,” Roy says this time-still gentle, but a summons, not the sex act, and Ed slants his eyes sideways just enough to answer it.
Roy cups Ed’s hand in his two, lifts it to his mouth, and kisses the knuckles. He keeps one hand wrapped around it and reaches out to touch the automail with the other.
“May I?” he asks.
Ed takes one breath, and then another.
It’s not like Roy doesn’t know. It’s not like Roy doesn’t know better-truer-than most people. It’s not like Roy hasn’t seen the real fucking thing, at the very beginning, the first time their eyes ever met-the absence; the hacked-off emptiness of the reality of what isn’t there. Not just the replacement. Not just the ingenious contraption that helps even him to forget, sometimes, what he really lost. What he really is, and what he really isn’t.
It’s not like Roy didn’t put both hands on the wreck of a fucking kid in a wheelchair, held together with a couple stitches and an echo of the grief beneath the whirlwind of guilt. It’s not like Roy hasn’t seen him sprawled on wet pavement surrounded by the fragments of his own fucking ruin, looking up at death and wondering if it might be kinder. It’s not like Roy doesn’t know where he’s been, and what he’s done, and what he looks like when the crutches and the elegant prosthetics all fall away.
He swallows.
“Yeah,” he says. “Go ahead.”
Roy looks at him for a long, long moment more, long enough for Ed to know that he heard it; that he gets it-he understands that it’s all part of this same fucking game Ed’s been playing his whole stupid life, where the shallow end is the only place he ever starts to drown. When this is moving fast enough-when what he feels is overpowering the feelings-he can handle it, and it’s great, actually; he likes it. Roy’s been paying attention-he noticed that, just now; he’s Roy; he’ll have figured it the fuck out.
Sure enough, all he says is “All right,” and it’s in about the softest version Ed’s ever heard of his fucking voice.
And then he ducks down and presses his mouth right in against Ed’s pulse point, almost too hard and with a hint of an edge of teeth, and right as Ed tilts his head back, both of those deft fucking hands dart up and flicker over the fastenings, and-
Ed closes his eyes and clenches his teeth; and gorgeous, tingling good-pain blooms outwards from where Roy nips gently at his skin; and then his right shoulder rises as the weight hauling on it disappears, and his spine shifts, and for a second he almost tips sideways out of the sheer force of the compensatory habit.
Fabric whispers past his all-too-fucking naked skin, and he chances a glance. Roy’s shifted partway across him in order to lean over, the lifeless steel cradled in both hands, and set Ed’s arm carefully on the coffee table.
Roy pauses a second, like he expects it to animate out of the blue and wriggle its fingers and jump down onto the carpet, and then he turns to Ed.
Roy’s hands ought to have their own fucking section in code of law. They need checks and fucking balances. The shit they do to Ed’s heart and guts and hips and skin just by existing ought to be illegal.
They’re currently chafing gently down both sides of his neck again, and then one’s cupping around the side of the port, and he’s trying not to think that.
He always feels-feeble, without it. Like a cat without claws; like a dog without teeth.
But Roy’s not looking at him like he’s prey.
Roy’s looking at him like he’s precious.
“Still with me?” Roy asks.
Ed swallows the not-inconsiderable collection of dreck and shit built up in his throat. “You got a rhetorical question fetish, too?”
“I’m not sure,” Roy says, mouth gliding along Ed’s jaw. “Do I?”
Maybe the bubble of a laugh in Ed’s throat is a tiny bit desperate, but it’s progress all the same.
“Shut up,” he says, and Roy pauses in mouthing at the borders of his face long enough to display the thousandth of the smug-ass grins, and Ed gets a fistful of the bastard’s hair again and drags him in to kiss that twice-damned expression right the fuck off of him.
Like he figured-like he knew; like Roy must have, too-it’s a hell of a lot easier after that, once they get back into it. Once they get moving, and there’s no damn time to sit there wallowing in the swamp of stupid thoughts about vulnerability and brokenness and all that shit.
It’s easier, and it’s good-Roy’s mouth on his bite-bruised neck, on his collarbones, down his chest; grazing one hip and then the other; tracking once again along the insides of his thighs, and then there’s a growl resonating up out of Roy’s throat at the way Ed’s spine arches up off of the carpet-
Ed manages to pry his fingers loose from Roy’s hair, because he’s going to yank it all out in another second, and even Roy probably couldn’t pull off bald. He can barely fucking control his hand when he’s so busy folding his body at all fucking angles trying to get his skin closer to Roy’s tongue.
[Chapter 8]
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed (though mostly just Ed vs. snow)
Rating: R
Word Count: 95,000 (9,340 in this bit)
Warnings: language; gore; violence; snow; suffering; AU from end of Brotherhood; eventual explicit smut
Summary: Once Ed decides that he is categorically not going to rot on the Drachman tundra, dragging his ass out of the jaws of death is actually pretty easy. ...except when it's not. At all. Which is most of the time.
Author's Note: SORRY THIS IS LATE! I've been in cosplay hell. I'll be emerging from cosplay hell to go to SVCC next weekend, so drop me a line if you're going to be there! Also sorry that this chapter cuts off in an even worse place than the previous… >__>' But I promise I'll finish it up for good in the next chapter, which will finally be the last. XD
BUT NOT BURIED THIS TIME
CHAPTER 7
The flitting of the-what? Urgency? Desperation? Pure fucking heat?-in Ed’s stomach won’t stop, and it won’t subside, and he really fucking hopes this shit is normal.
Something about the way his shoulders tighten up must telegraph some sort of message to Roy, though, because the fucker’s kissing him again-a kiss like the whole world falling, and Ed would know-
And then they’re stretched out on the floor-or Ed’s stretched out on the floor, and Roy’s kneeling over him, one arm under his back, so he arches it to keep his weight from cutting off Roy’s stupid circulation, and-
When his hips hit Roy’s, it’s like being electrocuted, and the breath he’d been trying to gasp in practically crackles as it evaporates.
Just like that-just like lightning from a clear fucking sky; like the inevitable fucking transfer of energy; like mutable fucking plasma straight through-he’s so damn hard he can’t resist the impulse to arc his spine a little higher and grind his hips on Roy’s, and-
Well, shit, he’s not the only one fucking eager for it, unless all the tactile nerves in his pelvic region have suddenly taken up deliberate deception as a side job.
It’s a fucking relief, honestly-that Roy’s every bit as primed and fucking ready; that Central’s resident smooth fucking bastard makes a faint noise in the back of his throat and starts panting like a dog into the side of Ed’s neck, fingers tightening in his hair. It’d be fucking humiliating to be the only one who wanted this so much he can’t even fucking help himself.
“Sorry,” Roy says, which makes about zero fucking sense. “It’s-it’s been-a while, and-I may have-contemplated this situation-previously-in some detail-”
“…the fuck?” Ed chokes out, partly just to shut him up. “Are you-apologizing?”
Roy pauses, and his hot breath rippling across Ed’s throat goes to battle with the immense fucking awkwardness, resulting in a bizarre, halfway-totally-fucking-turned-on impasse.
“Yes,” Roy says. “Sor-”
“You’re-” This is the dumbest word known to man, but his brain just keeps fucking spinning, and he can’t think of another. “You’re seducing me, and you’re-apologizing for-enjoying it?”
Roy’s eyelashes brush his cheek as the dumbass asshole piece of shit blinks four times in a row. “Well-no. I was apologizing for being horny as hell when you only just scraped through another canyon of catastrophe, and you’re probably injured far more than you’re letting on, a-”
“Your priorities are fucked, Mustang,” Ed says.
Roy draws back enough to grin at him-wearily, but there’s a glimmer of real delight in those endless fucking eyes. “I don’t think I can argue with that.”
“That’s a first,” Ed says. He glowers. With significance. “You know what else oughta be fucked?”
“My dear Edward,” Roy says, and the glimmer’s gone rogue comet again, and it’s slicing through the atmosphere, melting with the heat and the fucking friction, and its trajectory is unmistakable. “Whatever do you mean?”
Ed grits his teeth to stop himself from grinning back. “Could you do me a huge fucking favor and shut the fuck up and fuck me already?”
Roy laughs, which is not especially encouraging, actually. “Are you sure you want to? I think you could have concentrated a few more iterations of the word ‘fuck’ into that sentence, which would have been much more convincing as far as your intentions g-”
Ed reaches for him-somewhat indiscriminately-and ends up grabbing his ear as a handhold to drag him in and kiss him again, biting his bottom lip hard this time.
The way a shaky moan shivers up from the center of Roy’s chest, resonating up his throat and then outward through the both of them, ignites something in the pit of Ed’s stomach, and his heart just keeps trilling like it’s sounding an alarm. Maybe it is. Maybe this is what he’s been trying to talk himself out of all along, in some weirdly prescient kind of way-this particular vulnerability; this exchange of power. Maybe some part of him always realized that once he let it start, it’d be way the fuck over, and he wouldn’t stand a chance.
Roy peels off his fucking coat, and the sling gets all tangled, and the bastard starts apologizing again, and then he looks positively fucking tickled when Ed glares at him some more. The dizzying rattle of Ed’s heart makes it impossible for him to keep track of time; maybe it really does take a million years for Roy to draw the sleeve off of him, helping lift him off the floor and holding him a little tighter when his weight shifts and makes him wobble; maybe it really is impossibly slow as Roy drags the heavy woolen fabric down his back.
Ed’s heart jitters up into his throat and just-hangs there, practically fucking vibrating.
Roy’s mouth traces up the side of his neck to his ear, and then there’s another warm breath ghosting across his skin, and he shivers, and shivers again, but it’s not cold, and that’s weird as shit.
“Are you all right?” Roy whispers right into the shell of his fucking ear, so soft but so honey-voiced that it’s agonizing.
And Ed-
He is. He is; he knows he is; he knows he’s going to be fine; it’s just that if he lets this happen to him instead of participating-instead of being in control of it-he can tell it’s going to drown him.
“Shit,” he forces out around the throbbing weight of his heart, and the throbbing pull of his guts and his groin. “‘All right’? Settin’ a pretty low standard, Mustang.”
Roy draws back enough to make sure Ed sees that the concerned look hasn’t been assuaged by his latest brilliant fucking sally, and Ed rides that shift in power-he flattens his hand on Roy’s chest and pushes to part them just enough that he can get his fingers working on the buttons of Roy’s shirt.
His hand’s shaking. Fuck this shit. He can do it; he knows he fucking can; it’s not a big deal-
Roy’s mouth travels up his neck again, feather-light, and the tickle sends another tremble through him.
“Edward,” Roy says, soft-low and fucking devastating.
“If you’ll fucking excuse me,” Ed says, fighting a particularly stubborn buttonhole to wrench the stupid little fucking pearlescent disc free of its fucking confines, like they all deserve to be; “I’m trying to undress you here.”
“Edward,” Roy says again, and his hands lift, and his fingertips skate across Ed’s cheekbones, settling on his temples, smoothing back his hair; and it’s the fucking gentleness in all of it that makes Ed’s traitorous fucking hands stop once and for all, and Ed looks up at him and scowls with everything he’s got.
It’s not much. It’s not much because he doesn’t have a whole lot left.
“Edward,” Roy says, because apparently the third time’s the fucking charm; his voice just keeps-deepening, thickening, like hot syrup. Like fucking-cordial. Wine. Intoxicating as hell and a dozen times more dangerous than Ed knows how to deal with, because this is an uncharted playing field, and fuck knows how the game’s supposed to go.
“What?” Ed says.
Roy cups his face in both hands and waits until Ed stops squirming, looking right the fuck into his eyes.
“Trust me,” he says.
“I fucking do,” Ed says-blurts out, really; say has this connotation like he intends to speak, like he thought it through, like he knows what’s going to emerge from the tragic depths of his fucking brain when he opens his stupid mouth. “You know I do. I always have.” Well. “…almost. I almost-always have.” Roy’s eyebrow is rising at the same time as his arm guides Ed’s torso down onto the carpet again, which is a really confusing opposition further complicated by the way Ed’s heart keeps fucking banging at his ribs. “I mean-at least-eighty percent of the time. Eight out of ten’s not bad. That’s a passing gra-ahh, holy fuck-”
“That’s more like it,” Roy murmurs, kissing softly at the teeth marks he just fucking left on the side of Ed’s neck.
“You are a fuckin’ dog,” Ed says, and his heart’s beating even fucking faster, but-lighter, less intensely, less urgently, less like panic and more like-
More like a chemical high. More like adrenaline. More like the fight of his life-the best fight of his life.
“Mm,” Roy says, breathing across his throat, dragging his tongue, and fuck-
“Or a cannibal,” Ed chokes out.
Roy’s eyes are fucking live coals as he looks up through his eyelashes. “I won’t consume anything you’re not happy to part with.”
Ed hears a weird, wet sort of noise and then realizes-way too fucking late-that he just made it trying to gasp in enough breath to whimper with.
He’s the Fullmetal Alchemist. He doesn’t fucking whimper-not at the immortal monsters or the souls bound to sword-wielding armor or the crushing weight of the whole fucking world or someone else’s bloodbath of a war or the fucking apocalypse-and he’s not going to do it for Roy goddamn Musta-
One of Roy’s hands is still tangled up in his hair, and the other one just closed around his dick and started massaging meaningfully.
At least Ed’s moved on from whimpers to groans. That’s much more appropriate. Or-something. Or-fuck, that bastard is so fucking good at this it’s like a miracle-disaster-
Roy grinds the heel of his hand inward just hard enough that it hurts in a way that’s fucking transcendent.
Ed tries to tell him so and ends up with another guttural noise, but based on the way Roy laughs softly and nips at Ed’s left collarbone, apparently it gets the message across.
Well, two can play at that fucking game, and two basically have to, or else this is gonna be sort of fucked up and weird, right?
He bucks his hips up as hard as he can, aiming right for Roy’s to press the bastard’s hand in between their bodies-and God, that feels even better than he fucking thought-
And it’s wild, because he never had the slightest idea how fucking heady it is, coaxing noises like that-noises like the ones Roy’s making, low and shameless and shivery; noises like the ones that keep tearing their way up and out of his throat no matter how hard he tries to swallow them for the sake of something like fucking dignity-out of a person like Roy.
A person like Roy Mustang, who’s so fucking cool and collected and commanding at the worst of times-who plays poker in his sleep and chess with his eyes closed and never gives a single fucking article of his plans away-
Affecting him like this is dizzyingly good and hot as fucking hell.
That’s what Ed wants. That’s just about all he wants right this second-the heat. The heat of his own blood; of the fire; of the room; of Roy’s skin and eyes and mouth and hands and fingertips, and the choked-off hiss he makes when Ed scrabbles for a grip on the shirt he was halfway through undoing and hitches his body up to savor the unmistakable, undeniable, indescribable outline of Roy’s erection pushing at his pants-
And if it’s slutty to let his head fall back and his eyes fall shut and rut hard against that pressure with his own needy, aching fucking dick, then that’s a stake he’ll burn at-all the way to ash. Nobody who’s ever felt like this would blame him; nobody who’s ever gripped the fabric of another person’s clothes and given over to a cresting tide of pleasure so immense that it defies description altogether-
“Hell,” Roy whispers, fighting to catch his breath, and Ed’s heart skips another several beats, because he did that-he’s responsible for Roy Mustang struggling to get the oxygen for the blood that’s filling up his dick. “Have I told you in so many words that you’re so beautiful I can’t believe you’re real?”
“Save it for some theater date,” Ed gets out.
“Are you volunteering-” Roy’s hands should be fucking illegal; the graze of them up Ed’s sides might as well be a fucking drug. “-to accompany me to-” He drags in a breath so shaky Ed that understands the joy of smirking all at once. “- the theater?”
“Depends,” Ed says. To be fair, it takes him a full five seconds to muster up some spare saliva for the rest. “Show have sword fights?”
Roy’s whole body undulates against his-sinuous and still-too-hot and so fucking perfect there just aren’t adequate descriptors in this language, or probably in any other that Ed’s ever heard. “I’d-wager I can manage that.”
In the interests of discovering-nearly fucking impossible fucking thought-if this shit can get even better, Ed starts hauling one-handed at the buttons on Roy’s shirt again. “And you gotta buy me dinner.”
Roy grins against his throat, then drags his teeth across the skin again, and grins a little wider at the way Ed squirms. “If I can afford it.”
“Don’t t-tell me-fuck-”
Politely, Roy waits for him to continue.
Less politely, Roy keeps sucking on Ed’s collarbone while he waits.
At least Ed won’t have to explain this to Al, because Al already knows exactly what-well, who-the fuck he’s doing right now.
The inevitable checkup with Winry’s gonna be interesting, though.
Ed wrestles about three-quarters of a real breath into his lungs. “Don’t f-fuckin’ tell me they don’t pay you enough to take a kid out to dinner once or twice.”
Roy’s hands are parting Ed’s shirt much more efficiently than Ed was managing the other way around-the better for the bastard’s tongue to skate down his sternum, apparently; the heat of Roy’s breath on the damp trail coaxes another groan out of Ed’s well-attended throat. “How about once or twice a week-until either you get bored of it, or the money runs out?”
The throb of Ed’s insatiable dick is distracting as hell. “D’you like this shirt?” he asks.
Roy pauses in his progress down Ed’s chest just long enough to smirk up at him.
“Not especially,” he says, fixing both hands on Ed’s hips and shifting up-making sure their hips brush-so that Ed will have more leverage to abuse it. “Go ahead.”
Ed has to twist his whole torso to reach over to his right arm where it’s splayed out on the carpet, with the sling still tangled around the wrist, so he can smack his palms together and then press the left one to the goddamn stupid shirt unjustly hiding Roy’s chest from him.
Blue light flares, and the shirt goes all to ribbons, and the ribbons slither off of Roy’s skin and coil up on the carpet in a pile.
If Ed’s not mistaken-and hell, on a hormone high like this, he probably wouldn’t notice if the roof caved in, so he could certainly be wrong-Roy’s eyes just darkened a little bit.
Ed might not be the only guy in the room who finds the judicious application of skillful alchemy unreasonably hot.
Ed tilts his head towards the shirt he just stripped off in a painfully literal sense of the word. “I can fix it later.”
The gleam in Roy’s eyes liquefies what’s left of the organs in his abdomen. “I don’t give a fuck.”
Ed swallows, which is a bit dangerous, since he doesn’t know where his spit’s going to end up now that he doesn’t have organs anymore. His hand’s getting unsteady again, but it’s the sheer force of the fucking eagerness this time, and drawing his fingertips down Roy’s chest assuages the worst of it right off the bat. “You better give at least one.”
“Don’t worry,” Roy says, and he runs the tip of his tongue along the edge of his teeth as he starts to grin with volcanic fucking heat. “I’m holding several in reserve for you.”
Ed wants to say something seriously fucking witty.
What comes out is “Fuck.”
Roy’s hands are roving all over his body yet again, and there is no greater torment in the fucking world, so he shuts his eyes and lets everything go limp to focus on enjoying it. “What’s the magic word?”
Ed cracks an eye open to target the snarl. “Now,” he says.
The glimmer turns to a twinkle while Roy laughs, which is not the fucking point, so Ed curls his fingers around the fly of the bastard’s slacks and sweeps one inside the waistband of Roy’s underwear-just far enough to graze his dick, and the way the surrounding muscles jump all at once, and the laugh strangles right into a moan-
“Point taken,” Roy gasps out as Ed tries to figure out whether it’s easier to undo the button or just shove his hand inside.
Ed’s so rarely been accused of trepidation that the shove-the-whole-hand-in strategy was probably the only option all along. “You always spend this much time talking when you fuck?”
It’s-weird, sort of. Having another dude’s throbbing, straining, searingly hot cock in your hand. But when he gently starts stroking, Roy’s eyes widen and then squeeze shut-and then he hangs his head and makes a faint noise like he’s dying, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“God, yes,” Roy grits out. “Right-the fuck-like that.”
This is a quick-draw fucking high-stakes game that Ed’s never played before, but he’ll be damned if anybody ever calls him a slow learner.
The trailing automail arm makes it sort of a pain, but he can still arch his back up enough to breathe out into the shell of Roy’s ear.
“Yes, sir,” he says.
Roy-
-groans loudly, grins recklessly, laughs breathlessly, half-turns to smear a damp kiss on Ed’s cheek, and then plants one hand on the carpet to support himself while he unfastens his slacks in the time it takes Ed to blink and then shoves them down to his knees.
“You are,” Roy says, panting more than just a little now, “too damn extraordinary by half.”
Ed tunnels his fingers the way he usually likes it and starts pumping Roy’s dick real slow. “Which half?”
“A conceptual half,” Roy says, and the coherency of it is sort of belied by the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the tremble of his elbow where he’s holding himself up. “Half again on top of your whole. That must be-” A low, uneven groan that quickens Ed’s blood-and thickens it, with such violent fucking suddenness that he almost can’t see for a second. “Must-be-the explanation for your-size-”
Ed stops ministering to the goddamn motherfucking traitor he’d been planning to sleep with until just now. “My what?”
And Roy is laughing again, like this is the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him, and all he wants it to aim that smug-ass fucking shit-eating grin at Ed and wait for the fireworks for the rest of his life.
“If you were bigger,” Roy says, “the universe just wouldn’t be able to hold you.”
Ed’s body’s so fucking confused. Between the sex and the rage, he’s not even sure what the heat burgeoning everywhere is coming from anymore.
“You better be the best fucking lay in Central by a long shot,” he says, “or I am gonna do things I don’t even wanna talk about to your balls.”
Roy clicks his tongue and shakes his head, and if Ed couldn’t see the pulse pounding desperately in his throat, it’d be ass-kicking time. “Communication is key to a healthy relationship, Edward.”
“How about this?” Ed asks, hooking his right leg around Roy’s hips to drag his criminally unattended groin all the way up Roy’s thighs and then against his cock before letting his own weight draw him back down. “Fuck me right this goddamn second, or I’m moving to Xing.”
“Surely,” Roy says, and there’s the purr again, and the fucking eyelashes, and that shouldn’t fucking work, but suddenly Ed can’t even hope to breathe; “after all this waiting, you’re hungry enough for an appetizer before we get to the main course?”
Ed scowls as darkly as he’s capable of, but his hand’s got a mind of its fucking own, and it’s tracing one fingertip real slow around the edge of Roy’s huge fucking cauterized-impalement scar in a way that probably qualifies as “loving” no matter what expression’s on his face.
“I didn’t order a fucking appetizer,” he says. “’Cause sometimes that just slows ’em d-”
Ed’s fast, sure-everybody knows it. It’s the reason he’s alive; basically always has been.
But Roy Mustang is a legend.
And he’s got Ed’s pants down around his thighs and a hot, hot, so fucking hot mouth around Ed’s dick in a matter of a second and a half, and-
Fucking hell-
Practically all that Ed can see through the fucking sunburst is silky dark hair trailing over skin-his skin, his hipbones; and those incredible fucking hands spread themselves on one thigh each and pin him to the carpet as the sheer fucking power of it tears on through him, and his spine tries to curl back to let it out-
Oh, God, he likes the way it feels trying to writhe and knowing Roy will hold him down.
And Roy knows he knows it, because he makes a sound like sobbing, and his hips strain hard for freedom, and Roy’s grip only tightens, and those fingers start to dig into his ass-
And it is absolutely fucking unreal how fucking sublime it feels-Roy’s mouth around him, too-hot and so wet and close; the press of his tongue is staggering, and if Ed had any nerves left to electrify, they’d be quitting their day jobs to get in on this-
And Roy shifts in closer-takes him deeper-and swipes his tongue slowly against the base of Ed’s cock, then up along the whole length of it to flick just the tip of it just gently at the head, then down again-so fucking far down, enveloping him completely, sucking softly at first and then harder, and swallowing so that the rings of muscle in his throat just fucking ripple all around Ed’s skin, and-
Too late he notices that his hand’s clenched in Roy’s hair, probably too tight, but the bastard hasn’t quit or complained yet, so maybe-?
Roy swallows, swallows, bobs his head, jacks the pressure up from magnificent to perfect-unbearable with the inward-upward motion of his tongue-
“Fuck,” Ed gasps out, and he doesn’t even recognize the sound of his own damn voice-who the fuck is this kid all faint and reedy like he’s never even talked before? “Fuck-Roy-God, Roy-I-”
They should ban him from sex forever for even thinking about uttering such a fucking cliché.
To be fair, though, it’s not exactly like he had any brain cells left to think about it.
And Roy-
Just-
Looks up at him through the ragged curtain of gorgeous dark hair, and his eyes are so fucking hot and bright and deadly with a challenge and an unformed grin that Ed just can’t-
Not-
Come so hard he blacks out, then whites out, then wakes up gasping on the floor with sharply-burning tears digging into the corners of his eyes.
Roy’s sitting up, one hand smoothing gently up and down Ed’s left thigh, like he doesn’t even fucking see the automail, and why does that make the half-formed tears sting even worse?
It’s a good damn thing Roy looks so fucking self-satisfied that Ed forgets to be upset about anything.
“The fuck did you learn how to do that?” Ed coughs up, because it seems like somebody ought to say something before Roy just eye-smolders them both out of existence. He’s not even sure what interrogative word’s supposed to go at the front of the question, but since pretty much all of them are relevant, it doesn’t matter much.
“Academy,” Roy says, which answers the when and the where, at least. His tongue darts out to run along his upper lip. Ed can’t tell if he’s actually getting anything, but it’s hot as hell just contemplating the reality that Roy fucking Mustang just licked cum off of his dick.
And liked it.
“You think they’d open a spot if I tried to enroll?” Ed asks.
Roy’s thumbs trace simultaneously down along the creases where his thighs meet his hips.
“I think you should be home-schooled,” he says.
It’s sort of a pity Ed doesn’t have much breath left to laugh-but on the other hand, Roy’s ego doesn’t need the help.
“Mm,” Roy murmurs, leaning down to drag his mouth along the inside of Ed’s nerve-loaded knee, tugging Ed’s pants down a little further while he’s there; “I’ve been thinking of a lot of lesson plans.”
Ed can’t tell whether his body’s trying to shiver or to contort itself closer to Roy. It’d be hard to argue with either one. “Y-yeah? I’m into-practical demonstrations. H-hands-on learning and all that-” The tip of Roy’s tongue traces an aimless wavy line along the inside of his thigh, and his back arches, and the breath tears out of him in a single gasp. “-sh-shit. All that shit. Mustang.”
“Present and accounted for,” Roy says into his skin.
“Y’know,” Ed says, “I think I would’ve liked school a lot more if it-”
“If everyone got private tutoring,” Roy says, “it wouldn’t be special anymore.” He looks up slowly, and it’s funny that he’s so famous for his hands when his eyes are just as dangerous. “Are you ready for more?”
The thought that it might get better than this makes the pit of Ed’s stomach start to warm again-just like fucking that. “You bet your obnoxiously fine ass.”
“Mm,” Roy says, because he’s an asshole bastard piece of shit who seems to understand that every time he makes that noise, it’s worse; “that ought to be my line.”
“No more lines from you, remember?” Ed says. “You’re on line probati-fuck-”
Roy just folded Ed’s right knee up against his chest and started mouthing damply down the back of his thigh, which feels so fucking good Ed thinks he’s entitled to forget the rest of that sentence as his brain shorts out.
“I assumed you were moments away,” Roy says, and he nips, and Ed-hears a faint, high howl that clearly came from someone else- “From suggesting that I kiss your ass. So I thought I should oblige.”
Most of Ed’s vitals must be functioning, or he wouldn’t be able to feel the blood starting to beat with that specific kind of urgency again-light and faint, at first; a pattering, a fluttering, and then a tidal wave of heat.
“They give awards for biggest smartass at academy, too?” he manages to ask-which, he’d like the record to show, is really rather impressive when you’ve got Roy fucking Mustang smirking at you from between your legs.
“Several that were unofficial,” Roy says, and the smirk parts for a gleam of teeth, and the lining of Ed’s stomach catches fire again. “I won them all.”
“Shock of my fucking life,” Ed says.
Roy wraps one hand around each of Ed’s thighs and gazes at the way his fingertips dimple the flesh as he gradually tightens his grip. He looks like he just won an all-expenses-paid ticket to Paradise, and there’s no round-trip.
“Much as there is nowhere on this planet that I’d rather be,” he says, and Ed’s chest does a funny kind of clenching thing, “I did not plan this quite as far ahead as perhaps I should have, and I need to retrieve a couple things.”
Ed always knew he should’ve read one or two of those shitty romance books that Al likes. Maybe then he’d know how you’re supposed to sprawl seductively in a situation like this. The only kind of sprawling he’s got practice with is the kind that deliberately takes up as much of the bed as possible.
He takes a stab at an educated guess by stretching his arm up over his head, arching his spine, and twisting his hips-which feels great on top of probably looking okay, right up until a bit of cartilage in his shoulder pops louder than the fucking fire.
“Shit,” he manages, feeling his face heat up in the really-not-good kind of way. “Real sexy.”
Roy’s eyes don’t dull a fucking fraction, and they don’t waver from where they’re fixed on Ed’s.
“You’re damn right,” he says. He heaves a more-than-slightly-histrionic sigh, kisses Ed’s hipbone softly, and gets up, starting for the doorway. “Excuse me, my dear.”
“Your what?” Ed asks, but the combination of post-orgasm weakness and the lack of support from the right arm makes it difficult to lever himself partway upright. “Oh, no,” he calls after Roy’s retreating back, and he can read the fucking smugness in no more than the line of those damn shoulders. “None of that pet name shit. You hear me? I will end you.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Roy says, voice trailing down the hall, and…
And shit. He-Edward Elric, career fuckup, renowned life-destroyer, sinner extraordinaire-is lying half-naked on the carpet in Roy Mustang’s living room, basking in both the heat of the fireplace and the increasing likelihood that he’s about to get fucked into next week.
It’s almost good enough to blot out all the shit that got him here.
His hair’s already tangling like a motherfucker, but that’s a problem that can wait; he shoves it back out of his face and then hikes himself up on his one operable elbow.
This is the best place for them to do this shit after all, isn’t it? Damn Roy, realizing that right off the bat-realizing that this is where it started, in all the ways that count.
And he must know what he does to people-someone like Roy, whose whole long-game master-plan relies on his uncanny ability to read everyone around him and guide them in the direction that he wants. He must know what he does-what he’s capable of. He must have known that Ed would turn to putty in his fucking hands.
He must not mind.
He must be fucking serious.
Hopefully there’ll be some serious fucking, too.
Footsteps proceed back down the hall at a fairly precipitous rate, but then they pause in the doorway. Ed tries to make his cautious glance upward-to see how fucking stupid Roy thinks he is-look casual. Isn’t confidence supposed to be the kicker, or something?
Roy doesn’t look disgusted at all, though, unless he’s gotten way fucking better at acting since Ed left.
“You,” Roy says, “are so damn gorgeous it’s enormously inconvenient.”
“I dunno about this ‘gorgeous’ shit,” Ed says, “but I’ve been telling you I’m enormous for years.”
It is so fucking unfair how much hell that goddamn grin wreaks on Ed’s every last damn system. Roy Mustang ought to come with one of those fucking warning labels about how consumption poses a significant risk to all of your vitals and shit.
“Sorry about that,” Roy says, sauntering over. He catches up a red blanket and two of the throw pillows from the couch en route to where Ed is still valiantly attempting at a sexy sprawl. “I couldn’t hear you all the way down there.”
The roaring white silence is probably a bad sign. Did Ed just slip past the Gate for a second there?
“I can’t believe this,” a remnant of his voice remarks. “I’m gonna kill you and go to jail for murder before I ever get to lose my virginity.”
Roy crouches down next to Ed, head tilting as he grins again. “Can’t we multitask?”
“Hey, look at that,” Ed says, nodding to him. “Dead man talking.”
Roy shifts down onto one of his knees, bracing the hand not dragging half of the couch next to Ed’s head and leaning in to kiss him. Probably Ed should, like, bite the bastard’s lip for vengeance or something, but honestly it just feels too fucking nice.
“I think perhaps we should take care of your pressing virginity problem before any homicides occur,” Roy says.
“I think your problem’s more pressing right now,” Ed says, rolling far enough to cup his left hand around Roy’s groin, and-sure enough-the bastard’s still hard as hell, and his eyelids flutter as Ed squeezes gently.
“Mmmm,” Roy says. The fucker. “Touché.” He pushes his hips forward into Ed’s grip and then drops to both knees, which gives him better leverage to run one hand slowly down Ed’s side. “Hell. Didn’t even strip you properly; that’s a damn shame.” He draws the bottom of the paltry shirt currently protecting Ed’s torso from the unthinkable cold up slowly, kissing at the skin underneath. “To be fair, I was in a bit of a hurry.”
“Fuck,” Ed manages, which is about the best he’s probably going to be able to do between the heat of Roy’s dick in his hand and the heat of Roy’s mouth on his stomach.
The fabric rustles, swishing softly against his piqued fucking nerves, and Roy’s wet tongue makes him startle in the best way, and then-
A pause.
Silence.
“This is new,” Roy says, brushing just his fingertips along the edge of the scarring shit around the bullethole.
“Oh, yeah,” Ed says. “Funny story about that.”
Roy gives him a dark look. “Ah, yes. Getting shot is hilarious.”
“Shit happens,” Ed says.
Roy’s forehead furrows as he trails his index finger across the snarl of brand-new worm-white scar tissue with its shiny dead-rose-pink circumference. “Did you-when did this happen? Did you fix this?”
“That’s what you got the letter for,” Ed says. His guts start to cool down, and twist up, and-shit. “Can you-maybe give me grief about it later?”
Roy looks at him for a long, long moment, and Ed can almost feel the pages flipping underneath his fingers-several chapters of the volumes that the bastard doesn’t speak.
“Only if you promise you’ll sit still while I finally harangue you,” Roy says at last.
“I will if you feed me,” Ed says.
Roy smiles, and the shadow in his eyes recedes a little. “Deal.”
“Has to be good food, though,” Ed says. “What with the quitting and shit, I don’t get paid to listen to your stupid lectures anymore, s-oh, God-”
Roy has been doing that damn obnoxious thing he always does-that is, half-listening with an ever-so-slightly smug little smile, and then plotting and enacting his attack while his opponent waits in expectation of a rejoinder.
Well-if ducking down and nibbling at one of Ed’s hips counts as an “attack”, anyway. Ed doesn’t have the vocabulary for this shit.
He also can’t help fucking squirming as Roy shoves his shirt up practically to his shoulders and starts tracking up his chest-nipping and licking and lathing and just… lavishing every last fucking inch of his skin, savoring every muscle, and what the hell-?
He writhes a little harder, trying to get some traction to… well, shit-to something; Roy’s doing all the damn work. That’s not how it’s supposed to go, is it? It can’t be, the way people talk; so-
One of Roy’s hands closes around his wrist, pinning it over his head, and his breath catches so hard that he chokes on it.
Dredging a few words up from the fucking magma in the pit of his stomach is nearly impossible, but that’s sort of his trademark by now. “Would you just let m-”
“No,” Roy says, the tip of his tongue feather-light on one of Ed’s ribs, which is unfair, thank you very goddamn much. “You elected me as the curator of your education in the fine art of sex, and I intend to follow through.”
“Guess it’s good,” Ed chokes out as Roy’s mouth descends onto his skin again-stark-bright sparks of gorgeous pain from the teeth soothed instantly by the damp breath and the soft mouth, and if this is what it’s supposed to be like, how does anybody go around doing anything fucking else? “That you’ve got a-f-fuck-an-election fetish-”
Roy laughs, and the shiver of the air across Ed’s skin actually makes it worse, and his back arches, and the way Roy’s grip on his wrist tightens to hold him down-
Fuck.
“May I use that on my campaign posters?” Roy asks.
“You might get my vote that way,” Ed manages. “M-meant to tell you-ran into a lady in Riedbach w-who thinks you’re hot-” Roy’s tongue flicks over his nipple, and his hips jerk so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t fucking break anything. “-shit.”
“I am hot shit,” Roy says. He starts peeling the shirt off, carefully guiding it past Ed’s chin and over his head-and then leaves it as a muddle of fabric tangled around Ed’s arms, one of which he can’t even lift. “I am offended by the implication that her opinion of me was somehow exaggerated.”
Ed wants to laugh, but his breath is doing a funny thing where it just turns into steam the second it enters his lungs. “W-who’s implyin’ that?”
“Certainly not you, I hope,” Roy says, teeth grazing over his collarbone and then up his throat. “Or I might have to teach you some manners.”
The shiver that runs through Ed’s whole fucking body, head to toe-including the metal ones-is entirely involuntary, which surely means it shouldn’t count.
“Yeah?” he manages. “I mean-maybe you should-do that anyway.”
Roy’s eyes flick up to fix on his, and the hand not pinning his wrist to the carpet drags slowly down his side, fingertips roving.
“Do you think so?” he asks, in a voice like velvet-wrapped titanium.
Ed grits his teeth-you can’t not answer, when he talks like that; but it’s all a fucking power game, isn’t it? Trying to get Ed to admit to wanting something that he really shouldn’t but can’t help craving, and-?
Except then Roy ducks to kiss-with just a hint of a bite-at the side of his neck, right under his ear, body undulating upward over Ed’s as he levies his weight on pinning Ed’s arm.
“Next time?” he whispers.
And that-that pulses in his veins all the fucking harder, all the fucking faster; that’s a call to arms dissolved right into his very fucking blood.
Because that sounds like a promise.
And Roy doesn’t make those idly.
Roy doesn’t do anything idly.
Except dapple his fingertips along the edge of Ed’s hipbone, apparently.
“That was absolutely delightful,” Roy says, sounding ever so fucking faintly surprised.
Ed’s brain has long since shorted the fuck out.
No, wait-it-fizzled. Fritzed. Not ‘shorted’; God fucking forbid-
“What?” he manages.
“I just watched your pupils dilate when I said that,” Roy says. “It was absolutely sublime.”
Ed can’t help fucking groaning, and if it’s only sixty percent exasperation because it’s forty percent… something else… then…
Well, it’s not his fucking fault Roy’s like this-like a sunbeam and a slap to the face and a wet dream and a fucking revelation.
“Would you shut up?” he asks.
“Probably not,” Roy says, mouth gliding down his sternum again, and then down, and down- “Are you asking as a hypothetical because you’re planning to offer a bribe?”
“Some of us-” Ed has to pause to gasp for air as Roy’s fucking tongue ghosts down his inner thigh again. “-aren’t in-the fucking-military-for the kickbacks-”
“Just for the ass-kicking,” Roy says.
“Y-yeah,” Ed says. The ceiling in here is really-well, actually, it’s not really anything in particular. It’s a fucking ceiling. Dark wood beams and maybe some kind of stucco or something. He keeps swallowing, but his heart keeps bobbing back up into his throat and beating there, intently, as Roy’s breath sighs against the all-too-tender, still-too-sensitive skin.
Ed drags in a labored breath and lets it out slow and shuddering as Roy’s mouth hovers there-just the whisper of his tongue, like the slither of silk, favoring Ed’s thigh for another fraction of a second before it draws away.
Ed wins the fight for words this time: “You gotta stop that.”
“Stop what?” Roy murmurs, because he is the biggest, evilest, worst fucking bastard in the entire extended history of terrible bastards dating back to the dawn of man.
“Teasing me,” Ed grinds out, “you fucking-aah-”
He’d fully intended to finish that with something pithy and cutting and brilliant-right up until the point where the flat of Roy’s tongue glides slowly and deliberately up the underside of his dick.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Roy asks, and his voice is still like hot fucking butter, and Ed can’t bear it- “It looks like you’re enjoying it.”
“You’re not giving me much of a fucking-” His back arches off the floor, and the breath sears out of his lungs. “-choice, much of a fucking-choice-”
Roy’s sigh is soft and weirdly sweet, and there’s a tenor of a laugh beneath it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding like he really means it, even; like it’s true. “It’s just that you’re so-it’s such a privilege touching you at all.”
“Shut it,” Ed says. The effort of wedging his one working elbow underneath himself and lifting his torso enough to see the bastard’s face is, at least, distracting his attention from Roy’s mouth enough that he can almost think straight.
Roy, newly visible-
-grins.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” he asks. “I suppose I can still do quite a lot of damage with it closed.”
Ed lets his shoulders drop to the carpet and his head fall with them. He knows the cascade of his stupid hair will just about give Roy a heart attack, so that’s something. “Can’t believe I agreed to this.”
“Still time-” And there’s that fucking tongue again, light and delicate against the far-too-secret skin between his asshole and his dick, and holy-shit- “-to change your mind.”
It takes Ed a full two-second span to realize that he’s scraping both heels on the carpet like a feverish fucking animal, writhing with the effort of trying to pour some of the overwhelming heat inside him out.
“Fuck,” he says, faintly, and it sounds surprised even to his own ears.
“Getting there,” Roy says. “Patience, Edward.”
Bastard. Bastard knows, doesn’t he? Knows how many years Ed’s been dreaming of that voice, his name, firelight and a slow burn under every centimeter of his skin.
He makes some kind of a noise that averages the worst parts of an Oh and an Augh, and then his hips are rising from the floor again; he just can’t help it; can’t stop it; can’t make real words come.
Funny thing is, the time he accidentally learned what rimming was in the cafeteria, he thought it sounded like some special kind of fucking torture-miserable as shit for both parties, and disgusting and unsanitary to boot, and sure, he blushed redder than a fucking stoplight at sunset, and Havoc almost choked to death laughing at his expression, which at least was great insofar as it diverted everyone’s attention from Ed’s embarrassment, but-
But the thing is-
This feels like fucking heaven.
Well-
Damper, maybe; heaven’s supposed to have-clouds and shit, right? But this-
Just-
God-
The slick trajectory of Roy’s incomparable fucking tongue-just-dipping, sliding, probing, mapping-gently-either all the nerves in his body suddenly concentrated in that one fucking spot, or his whole system’s rapidly going haywire, and either way, it’s just so fucking good-
The absolutely fucking delicious torment abates for a second, and Roy’s voice rumbles, and Ed tries to blink the fucking stars out of his eyes long enough to listen.
“All right?” Roy asks.
“Again,” Ed pants out, “with the low fuckin’ standards, Mustang. You know who you are?”
“Most of the time,” Roy murmurs. “It’s a bit harder without you.”
“Well, now,” Ed says, fighting to sit up again so he can glare a little better, “it can be a bit harder with me, if you get my drift.”
Roy smiles at him, and one eyebrow arches slowly. “Is that your way of cordially requesting that I save the soppy declarations for another time and pay attention to the task at hand?”
Ed tries to focus on the sound of his breath hissing in and out past his teeth instead of on the excruciating throb in his guts, in his blood, in his groin.
“You ever seen me cordially request a fucking thing?” he asks.
“Aptly put,” Roy says.
Ed rolls his hips, which doesn’t do a whole lot for the boiling heat beneath his skin, but something’s gotta give.
“If you don’t want to-keep doing that,” he gets out, “tell me what the fuck you want me to do, okay?”
“I want you to keep lying there,” Roy says, running both tantalizingly warm open palms up and down Ed’s thighs, with another goddamn slowly-unfurling radiant fucking grin, “looking like you’re about to throttle me if I don’t hurry it up.”
“You say that-” Ed starts trying to wriggle free of all the stupid fucking clothes tangled up around his wrist; the automail’s like a hunk of lead, and the weight of it keeps trapping his other arm. “-like you think I’m above it.”
Roy pauses, and Ed can just see him considering the best way to phrase the joke.
Time for the heavy fucking artillery. Ed jerks his left arm free and lashes out with it before Roy can do the stupid fucking coy drawing-away bit again-and gets all five fingers curled in the silky black hair just behind his ear to make sure he can’t do it any time soon.
He leans in as close as he can without going cross-eyed staring at the bastard’s way-too-gorgeous, way-too-smug fucking face, and then he breathes against that talented mouth as softly as he dares.
“Would you just fuck me?” he says.
Roy’s knuckles graze along his cheek, down his neck-and settle on his inoperable metal shoulder.
“Is it hurting you?” he asks.
It’s really fucking difficult to take him seriously when he’s gazing at you through his eyelashes like that, but it’s sort of an important question, probably. Not as important as the one that Ed just asked, obviously, but he has to admit it’s sort of a nice thought. “Nah. Just getting in the way.”
He can’t quite see what Roy’s fingers are doing, and he can’t quite feel it, which is a totally bizarre set of circumstances, because somehow he knows from Roy’s face that there’s some adulatory fingertip-designs or some shit going on.
Roy’s eyes also dart towards the automail and then back up as he thinks real fucking hard about what he wants to say before he shares it with the class:
“Would it help to take it off?”
You know a picture lasts longer dies on Ed’s tongue and disintegrates. For the record, it tastes like crap. That’s probably what he gets for talking shit.
He swallows, which is extremely unpleasant, and then tries to search the nooks and crannies of Roy’s endless fucking stare for some kind of… something. A hint, a clue, the judgment, the rationale.
Roy gives him nothing to go on except a very slight, very soft little smile.
Bastard.
Ed makes a strong effort to clear his throat. “I-dunno. I mean, it’s sort of…” What? Scary? Humiliating? Disabling? Fuck. “…I guess it’d… get in the way less if it wasn’t… on.”
Oh, good. Now he sounds like a fucking moron on top of everything else. Who wouldn’t aspire to sitting ass-naked on Roy Mustang’s living room carpet, spouting stupid nonsense in answer to a perfectly reasonable question?
Well-relatively reasonable. It’d be a stretch to think Roy has ever been perfectly reasonable in his entire life.
But this time, he’s right, isn’t he? Wearing a sling and nothing else would be absolutely fucking ridiculous, and since it’s not like life is going to spark the fuck back into his arm and allow him any use of it, the most practical solution-especially since he doesn’t want to damage it any further, and he was really only wearing it this long so that he didn’t lose it-is to remove the fucking thing.
“Winry’ll need to work on it anyway,” he says, slowly, still watching Roy’s eyes for some kind of a sign. “So-I mean-”
“If it would make you uncomfortable,” Roy says, “forget I ever mentioned it.”
Ed eyes him. “Okay, sure. I’m real good at forgetting shit, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Roy has a special little laugh-sigh number just for him. It’s sort of cute. “The thought occurred to me.”
Ed steels himself, pun fully fucking intended, albeit tragically undelivered. “Look, just-yeah. Lemme just-”
It’s kind of tricky to do anything this close-up without elbowing Roy in the fucking nose, but he tries to shift and fumbles to get a grip on the latch for the shoulder-a maneuver complicated somewhat by the helpful fact that his stupid fucking hand just started shaking again, which is embarrassing, which-
“Edward,” Roy says softly, and the fingers curling around Ed’s are even softer.
He looks over at the fire-which is easier, for starters; and might help hide the worst of the fucking blood rushing to his cheeks, for bonus points.
“Ed,” Roy says this time-still gentle, but a summons, not the sex act, and Ed slants his eyes sideways just enough to answer it.
Roy cups Ed’s hand in his two, lifts it to his mouth, and kisses the knuckles. He keeps one hand wrapped around it and reaches out to touch the automail with the other.
“May I?” he asks.
Ed takes one breath, and then another.
It’s not like Roy doesn’t know. It’s not like Roy doesn’t know better-truer-than most people. It’s not like Roy hasn’t seen the real fucking thing, at the very beginning, the first time their eyes ever met-the absence; the hacked-off emptiness of the reality of what isn’t there. Not just the replacement. Not just the ingenious contraption that helps even him to forget, sometimes, what he really lost. What he really is, and what he really isn’t.
It’s not like Roy didn’t put both hands on the wreck of a fucking kid in a wheelchair, held together with a couple stitches and an echo of the grief beneath the whirlwind of guilt. It’s not like Roy hasn’t seen him sprawled on wet pavement surrounded by the fragments of his own fucking ruin, looking up at death and wondering if it might be kinder. It’s not like Roy doesn’t know where he’s been, and what he’s done, and what he looks like when the crutches and the elegant prosthetics all fall away.
He swallows.
“Yeah,” he says. “Go ahead.”
Roy looks at him for a long, long moment more, long enough for Ed to know that he heard it; that he gets it-he understands that it’s all part of this same fucking game Ed’s been playing his whole stupid life, where the shallow end is the only place he ever starts to drown. When this is moving fast enough-when what he feels is overpowering the feelings-he can handle it, and it’s great, actually; he likes it. Roy’s been paying attention-he noticed that, just now; he’s Roy; he’ll have figured it the fuck out.
Sure enough, all he says is “All right,” and it’s in about the softest version Ed’s ever heard of his fucking voice.
And then he ducks down and presses his mouth right in against Ed’s pulse point, almost too hard and with a hint of an edge of teeth, and right as Ed tilts his head back, both of those deft fucking hands dart up and flicker over the fastenings, and-
Ed closes his eyes and clenches his teeth; and gorgeous, tingling good-pain blooms outwards from where Roy nips gently at his skin; and then his right shoulder rises as the weight hauling on it disappears, and his spine shifts, and for a second he almost tips sideways out of the sheer force of the compensatory habit.
Fabric whispers past his all-too-fucking naked skin, and he chances a glance. Roy’s shifted partway across him in order to lean over, the lifeless steel cradled in both hands, and set Ed’s arm carefully on the coffee table.
Roy pauses a second, like he expects it to animate out of the blue and wriggle its fingers and jump down onto the carpet, and then he turns to Ed.
Roy’s hands ought to have their own fucking section in code of law. They need checks and fucking balances. The shit they do to Ed’s heart and guts and hips and skin just by existing ought to be illegal.
They’re currently chafing gently down both sides of his neck again, and then one’s cupping around the side of the port, and he’s trying not to think that.
He always feels-feeble, without it. Like a cat without claws; like a dog without teeth.
But Roy’s not looking at him like he’s prey.
Roy’s looking at him like he’s precious.
“Still with me?” Roy asks.
Ed swallows the not-inconsiderable collection of dreck and shit built up in his throat. “You got a rhetorical question fetish, too?”
“I’m not sure,” Roy says, mouth gliding along Ed’s jaw. “Do I?”
Maybe the bubble of a laugh in Ed’s throat is a tiny bit desperate, but it’s progress all the same.
“Shut up,” he says, and Roy pauses in mouthing at the borders of his face long enough to display the thousandth of the smug-ass grins, and Ed gets a fistful of the bastard’s hair again and drags him in to kiss that twice-damned expression right the fuck off of him.
Like he figured-like he knew; like Roy must have, too-it’s a hell of a lot easier after that, once they get back into it. Once they get moving, and there’s no damn time to sit there wallowing in the swamp of stupid thoughts about vulnerability and brokenness and all that shit.
It’s easier, and it’s good-Roy’s mouth on his bite-bruised neck, on his collarbones, down his chest; grazing one hip and then the other; tracking once again along the insides of his thighs, and then there’s a growl resonating up out of Roy’s throat at the way Ed’s spine arches up off of the carpet-
Ed manages to pry his fingers loose from Roy’s hair, because he’s going to yank it all out in another second, and even Roy probably couldn’t pull off bald. He can barely fucking control his hand when he’s so busy folding his body at all fucking angles trying to get his skin closer to Roy’s tongue.
[Chapter 8]