slide-shift [ fullmetal alchemist: conqueror of shamballa; alfons/edward ]
Title: slide-shift
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist: Conqueror of Shamballa
Characters: Alfons/Edward
Rating: R (for not descriptive sex and hints of incest)
Genre: angst; stream-of-consciousness stuff, pwp
Notes: Unbeta'd 'cause I'm lazy and wanted to throw this up quickly.
Summary: How many times has he wanted to do this? (With Al or with Alfons, he can’t decide, the line that separates them blurs far too often.)
His fingers curl around the elastic of a suspender strap and it’s no surprise that the boy beneath him is looking up with wide eyes. He watches them, reminded so strongly of the skies over Resembool and it almost drives away the urge to do this. But it’s been a bad night. A bad year. A bad dream because this is not his home and this is not his world and this is not his brother laying beneath him with eyes like summer skies. And part of him wishes it was, because he’s supposed to be finding a way back, a way home, but every step he takes seems to force him even further from his goal. But it’s not his home. And even all the liquor he can feel burning in his stomach has helped ease away the lingering sensation that this is all just a dream. The same liquor he’d taken in so easily, so quickly, in an attempt to lose all recognition of where he is.
That’s probably why he’s here, right now, with false fingers tugging and pulling on the straps of this distorted reflection’s suspenders. Even Alfons’ expression reminds him of his brother, a thought that flitters across his inebriated mind, causing him to suddenly release his grip, sending the elastic flying back with a slap against a cotton covered chest. The hiss the action prompts is one he distantly recognizes as pain laced with arousal, which is why it’s no surprise when hardness can be felt pressed firmly against his thigh. How many times has he wanted to do this? (With Al or with Alfons, he can’t decide, the line that separates them blurs far too often.) How many times has he been tempted, stumbling home on late nights, collapsing into the bed with the warm body tucked under the covers…
With the alcohol in his veins, there’s no way he can deny the impulse. A shirt smelling of booze and tobacco is tugged off and tossed aside. Mismatched palms flatten against Alfons’ chest and he pushes up on his knees (with a measure of regret because that hardness against his thigh felt goodgreatgod) so he can drag them down to hips and thighs that aren’t his own. The fingers of his left hand linger against a clothed erection and as he watches Alfons through lashes lowered over molten gold, he breathes a slow breath in response to the groan that fills his ears. His right hand, clumsy as it is and nothing like the steel and chrome he had borne for so many years before tumbling into this strange world, works at the fastens of his own pants. And he can hear Alfons murmur his name in that rough, clunky, but so goddamn sexy accent.
“Alfons…” (Alphonse…) Whispered breathlessly and fuck, he’s wearing too many clothes. They both are, he wants them off. It takes one try, and then another, to slip a button from its hole. A zipper follows, and as his left hand continues the gentle squeeze-press-rub against his brother-not-brother, he all but shoves both his pants and shorts towards his knees. They’re kicked off to join his shirt somewhere on the bedroom floor. And Alfons is all but squirming under him now, pants and half murmured German curses escaping his lips.
Due to the assault of his fingers, Alfons’ eyes are closed and he hates that, he decides, leaning forward because he has yet to kiss him. He wants to see his eyes, watch him watching him because somewhere it seems like someone else is watching through those eyes too and god isn’t that a fucked up thought? But he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, because he’s hard and Alfons is hard, and he wants feel the slickslipslide of Alfons inside him. Once he manages to get Alfons’ pants unfastened too, he works to urge hardened flesh from the confines of fabric, and he shifts cold, leather bound steel fingers upwards across a still clothed chest. There is no sensation of a quickened heartbeat under his fingers, but he doesn’t regret it because the arm, one he uses to grip cotton and hold while he spits into the palm of his left hand, is the one he gave up in exchange for the soul to which he desperately clings. Al’s soul. (Which Al? Alphonse, Alfons, is he seeing beryllium aluminum or molten mercury, he can’t tell anymore through the haze of lust and liquor.)
Preparing himself is less a practice in withstanding pain (because he knows pain and he knows aches and this is nothing compared to having your limbs torn from your body or your heart ripped from your chest or your soul shredded by the Truth and force-fed knowledge it was never meant to have) and more a practice in patience. Saliva helps ease the way, but only so much, but he doesn’t care because this pain, this pain is something he’ll endure (it’s nothing compared to his pain, whose pain? but if he is Al and he is Al, don’t they both feel it?). He takes it in with clenched teeth and the sound of Alfons’ groans in his ears.
And then it’s all a blur because all he can seefeelhear is Al, Alfons, Al, god. Their rhythm is uneven, uncertain, and not quite enough for how deep he wants Alfons pressed into him. But it doesn’t matter because suddenly Alfons’ hands are on him, all over, tugging at leather straps that keep limbs in place and trailing callused fingers across sensitive, scarred skin. Because neither of them are experienced with this, it doesn’t take long for ecstasy to make them both crash and fall, leaving him a gasping, shuddering mess atop the other boy.
In the oblivion that follows, the line that defines brother and not-brother blurs even more, making the name that falls from his lips sound something like Alfons and something like Alphonse. The distorted reflection of his real brother sucks in a short breath of air at the murmur of the name, but he can’t see or know what Alfons is thinking because he’s already curling into the crook of a neck, exhaustion and the heavy drowsiness brought on by alcohol finally taking him.
so… sometimes i write fic. not very often, because i usually get all my writing urges out through roleplay (not on tumblr tho because i shudder at the thought of rping with tumblr’s formatting ugh). but i started this last night because i had the urge to write a bit of hei/ed porn. and, well, here it is.
thoughts and input appreciated as always! ♥
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist: Conqueror of Shamballa
Characters: Alfons/Edward
Rating: R (for not descriptive sex and hints of incest)
Genre: angst; stream-of-consciousness stuff, pwp
Notes: Unbeta'd 'cause I'm lazy and wanted to throw this up quickly.
Summary: How many times has he wanted to do this? (With Al or with Alfons, he can’t decide, the line that separates them blurs far too often.)
His fingers curl around the elastic of a suspender strap and it’s no surprise that the boy beneath him is looking up with wide eyes. He watches them, reminded so strongly of the skies over Resembool and it almost drives away the urge to do this. But it’s been a bad night. A bad year. A bad dream because this is not his home and this is not his world and this is not his brother laying beneath him with eyes like summer skies. And part of him wishes it was, because he’s supposed to be finding a way back, a way home, but every step he takes seems to force him even further from his goal. But it’s not his home. And even all the liquor he can feel burning in his stomach has helped ease away the lingering sensation that this is all just a dream. The same liquor he’d taken in so easily, so quickly, in an attempt to lose all recognition of where he is.
That’s probably why he’s here, right now, with false fingers tugging and pulling on the straps of this distorted reflection’s suspenders. Even Alfons’ expression reminds him of his brother, a thought that flitters across his inebriated mind, causing him to suddenly release his grip, sending the elastic flying back with a slap against a cotton covered chest. The hiss the action prompts is one he distantly recognizes as pain laced with arousal, which is why it’s no surprise when hardness can be felt pressed firmly against his thigh. How many times has he wanted to do this? (With Al or with Alfons, he can’t decide, the line that separates them blurs far too often.) How many times has he been tempted, stumbling home on late nights, collapsing into the bed with the warm body tucked under the covers…
With the alcohol in his veins, there’s no way he can deny the impulse. A shirt smelling of booze and tobacco is tugged off and tossed aside. Mismatched palms flatten against Alfons’ chest and he pushes up on his knees (with a measure of regret because that hardness against his thigh felt goodgreatgod) so he can drag them down to hips and thighs that aren’t his own. The fingers of his left hand linger against a clothed erection and as he watches Alfons through lashes lowered over molten gold, he breathes a slow breath in response to the groan that fills his ears. His right hand, clumsy as it is and nothing like the steel and chrome he had borne for so many years before tumbling into this strange world, works at the fastens of his own pants. And he can hear Alfons murmur his name in that rough, clunky, but so goddamn sexy accent.
“Alfons…” (Alphonse…) Whispered breathlessly and fuck, he’s wearing too many clothes. They both are, he wants them off. It takes one try, and then another, to slip a button from its hole. A zipper follows, and as his left hand continues the gentle squeeze-press-rub against his brother-not-brother, he all but shoves both his pants and shorts towards his knees. They’re kicked off to join his shirt somewhere on the bedroom floor. And Alfons is all but squirming under him now, pants and half murmured German curses escaping his lips.
Due to the assault of his fingers, Alfons’ eyes are closed and he hates that, he decides, leaning forward because he has yet to kiss him. He wants to see his eyes, watch him watching him because somewhere it seems like someone else is watching through those eyes too and god isn’t that a fucked up thought? But he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, because he’s hard and Alfons is hard, and he wants feel the slickslipslide of Alfons inside him. Once he manages to get Alfons’ pants unfastened too, he works to urge hardened flesh from the confines of fabric, and he shifts cold, leather bound steel fingers upwards across a still clothed chest. There is no sensation of a quickened heartbeat under his fingers, but he doesn’t regret it because the arm, one he uses to grip cotton and hold while he spits into the palm of his left hand, is the one he gave up in exchange for the soul to which he desperately clings. Al’s soul. (Which Al? Alphonse, Alfons, is he seeing beryllium aluminum or molten mercury, he can’t tell anymore through the haze of lust and liquor.)
Preparing himself is less a practice in withstanding pain (because he knows pain and he knows aches and this is nothing compared to having your limbs torn from your body or your heart ripped from your chest or your soul shredded by the Truth and force-fed knowledge it was never meant to have) and more a practice in patience. Saliva helps ease the way, but only so much, but he doesn’t care because this pain, this pain is something he’ll endure (it’s nothing compared to his pain, whose pain? but if he is Al and he is Al, don’t they both feel it?). He takes it in with clenched teeth and the sound of Alfons’ groans in his ears.
And then it’s all a blur because all he can seefeelhear is Al, Alfons, Al, god. Their rhythm is uneven, uncertain, and not quite enough for how deep he wants Alfons pressed into him. But it doesn’t matter because suddenly Alfons’ hands are on him, all over, tugging at leather straps that keep limbs in place and trailing callused fingers across sensitive, scarred skin. Because neither of them are experienced with this, it doesn’t take long for ecstasy to make them both crash and fall, leaving him a gasping, shuddering mess atop the other boy.
In the oblivion that follows, the line that defines brother and not-brother blurs even more, making the name that falls from his lips sound something like Alfons and something like Alphonse. The distorted reflection of his real brother sucks in a short breath of air at the murmur of the name, but he can’t see or know what Alfons is thinking because he’s already curling into the crook of a neck, exhaustion and the heavy drowsiness brought on by alcohol finally taking him.
so… sometimes i write fic. not very often, because i usually get all my writing urges out through roleplay (not on tumblr tho because i shudder at the thought of rping with tumblr’s formatting ugh). but i started this last night because i had the urge to write a bit of hei/ed porn. and, well, here it is.
thoughts and input appreciated as always! ♥