Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/871115.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fullmetal_Alchemist
  Relationship:
      Edward_Elric/Roy_Mustang
  Character:
      Riza_Hawkeye, Alphonse_Elric, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Light_Masochism, Oral_Sex, Anal_Sex, Age_Difference
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-07 Words: 13542
****** In The Gaslight ******
by unorthodoxCreativity
Summary
     Ed hates military parties. This is no surprise. But when a certain
     bastard of a colonel takes it into his head to make Ed's night a
     happier one, well. Ed's not complaining.
Notes
     I suppose you could argue this is a little bit AU, because it doesn't
     fit into either timeline very neatly, but it's not terribly reliant
     on any specific canon anyway, so I don't think it matters.
     Thanks to my awesome girlfriend AmariT and my new beta
     SailorTralfamadore90 for helping me edit this sucker. It was never
     supposed to get this long.
Ed hates his bowtie, he hates his cummerbund, and he hates the way his dress
shirt is clinging to his lower back from the sweat built up underneath three
layers. He wears this many layers regularly, and the feel of sweat is no
stranger, but it’s the principle of the thing; at least when he’s decked out in
leather and black, it’s his choice. And at least he has a badass image, then,
and doesn’t look like some prissy high-roller who takes afternoon tea and
discusses asinine things like the latest scandal.
The base of his neck is itchy, too, the skin prickling from his hair pulled too
tightly into a sleek ponytail. Al insisted on the change of style, doing it up
himself, otherwise Ed would have said fuck it and worn his hair in a haphazard
braid, as per usual. Stupid military events, stupid dress code, stupid state
official admittance only. If Al could have come, Ed would have forced him into
some terrible Aerugan silk loincloth so he wouldn’t be the only one in a
fucking penguin suit.
Instead, Al walked him as far as the columned hotel entrance and bid his
farewell a little too cheerfully, like his brother’s discomfort gave him
genuine glee.
Ed is seriously considering replacing his armor polish with superglue.
So far he’s managed to avoid most conversation, though he got cornered by an
already-tipsy Major Armstrong early on. He’s unfortunately already overstayed
his welcome at the refreshments table; after inhaling an entire tray of
pastries, the head caterer leveled a glare at him that even Teacher would have
approved of. As irritated and itching for a fight as he was, Ed would rather
walk out of here with minimal bruising.
“Fullmetal. I honestly did not expect you here.”
The voice crawls over his shoulder and prods his ear with just as much sickly
charm as its owner. He turns to look before he can stop himself, and promptly
curses. He knows only one man with that kind of pompous entitlement, and he
shouldn’t have given him even the slightest chance at starting a conversation.
“I have to say,” Colonel Mustang continues, insufferable smirk affixed
permanently on his face, “you clean up very nicely.”
“Shut your face, bastard,” Ed mutters. He’s not sure if he wants to punch the
Colonel in the nose, or find a table with a cloth to hide beneath for the rest
of the night. Maybe he could succeed at both, if he managed a quick enough
getaway after slugging his commanding officer.
“I’m sad to hear your demeanor does not follow the example your image
presents,” Mustang says then, but changes the subject before Ed can get a
complaint in. “I heard you sampled all of the chouquettes. Pity, I haven’t had
the chance to savor any decent viennoiseries since my last trip to the South.
They were delectable, I imagine?”
“They were fucking incredible, thank you very much,” Ed shoots back. A nearby
woman gently swirling champagne in a flute glass shoots him a dirty look. He
bites down the impulse to stick out his tongue, and instead gives her a winning
smile.
“Perhaps they’ll bring out more in a while,” Mustang continues.
“I’ll just eat them all before you can get to them anyway, out of spite,” Ed
says, falling into Mustang’s usual trap. He likes their insulting banter,
though he won’t admit it, but he still feels a sense of loss every time he gets
suckered into playing along.
Mustang snags a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and smirks against the
glass. “It’s almost as if you hate the occasion, Fullmetal. I can’t imagine
why.”
Ed scowls, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Not everyone is
comfortable dressed like some kind of rich airheaded politician.” The Colonel’s
smirk deepens and he takes a sip of the champagne, letting it sit on his tongue
as he considers his response.
He swallows, then, and offers a conciliatory smile. “Not everyone, no. But
sometimes you must play the part in order to garner favor.”
Another waiter passes with a tray of champagne. Ed reaches for a flute, just
for something for his hands to hold onto, but the waiter shoots him a look that
very clearly says, ‘You are too young, don’t even think about it.’ Mustang
barely conceals an amused grin and plucks another himself. He hands the one he
sipped out of to Ed, who looks at it with vague distaste.
“It’s alright,” the Colonel says to the waiter. “He’s just turned sixteen,
though he looks much younger.”
“Who are you calling so tiny he looks like he’s barely out of diapers?” Ed
hisses as the waiter sashays away, dubiously shooting the two of them looks.
“Nobody, I should imagine,” Mustang smirks. He lifts his flute, “Toast?”
“To what?” Ed demands, ignoring the lifted glass for a moment. “The political
tension between Amestris and Creta that made this stupid party necessary in the
first place? Or maybe you’d rather drink to the hundreds of civilians
slaughtered in Ebolas last month?”
Mustang’s smirk falters, falling into a more cynical smile. “Perhaps to the few
good men left in this world.”
Ed looks into his glass, watching the bubbles fizz their way to the surface. “I
guess I’ll drink to that.”
“May they live long and promote healthy change,” Mustang murmurs. The clink of
their glasses tingles its way down Ed’s fingers the same way the champagne
bites gently at his tongue.
He feels the awkward silence descending before it does, and that’s almost worse
than the hurling of insults. There was something too genuine about that last
exchange, and Ed suddenly feels the urge to flee, to find some antisocial
corner to grump in alone until he’s stayed long enough to make the military
happy.
Thankfully, his savior arrives in the form of a woman in a slinky black dress,
walking toward Mustang with purpose.
“Roy!” she calls, too familiar, and Ed relishes the look of frozen panic that
briefly shows on Mustang’s face.
“Major General Teague,” Mustang says politely with a stiff smile, accepting her
hand to ghost his lips across her knuckles.
Her returning smile is more genuine, with the hint of a flirty past Ed will
definitely dig out of the Colonel after she’s left. “I’ve told you time and
again, Roy, Ariana is fine.”
“Ariana,” Mustang corrects himself, though he stands with the same rigid
formality he began with. “How have you been? It’s been, what, five years?”
“Seven,” she says with a wry smile, leaning into his shoulder, “and it’s still
dreadfully boring in East without you.”
“Grumman still give you a hard time?” Ed loves the discomfort radiating from
Mustang. The story he doesn’t know here must be awful.
“Oh, always. I’m surprised one of the girls hasn’t reported him yet.”
“He’s harmless, really,” Mustang says, gently trying to extract himself from
her personal space. She doesn’t seem to notice, tiptoeing along with him. Ed
does his best to hold in a cackle.
“You know, I don’t think you’d think that anymore after being swatted on the
ass for the fiftieth time in a month.” There’s a razor edge to her flirting
now, and Ed just loves the direction this is going.
Until she turns and levels her interest on him.
“Is this the Fullmetal Alchemist I keep hearing about?” Her grin is almost
predatory. Ed wishes he had made his escape while he had the chance.
“Uh,” he manages eloquently, glancing around for any plausible getaway. Mustang
grins just as widely as the Major General. He’s going to murder him.
“You’re a lot… younger than I imagined,” she says after a moment of scrutiny.
Ed forces a smile, though really, the nicest thing he could do for the lot of
them is transmute her dress into a noose. Maybe then she’d stop petting
Mustang’s forearm like it’s some kind of prissy lapdog.
“He’s a genius,” Mustang cuts in before Ed can say something scathing in reply.
Ed blinks, suddenly speechless at the casual compliment.
“I’ve heard,” Major General Teague says. “I can only imagine the military must
be hard for you at such a young age.”
“I’m perfectly capable, thank you,” Ed shoots back crossly. He feels a little
guilty, hating this woman already, but so far she hasn’t done anything to
impress him.
“I see. Well, it was nice catching up, but I have others to attend to.” She
pinches Mustang’s cheek before she leaves – actually pinches it, like some kind
of overbearing grandmother – and then disappears with a gentle click of her
heels.
Ed barely manages to wait until she’s out of earshot before letting loose a
snort that dissolves into some rather embarrassing laughter. “Oh my god,” he
giggles at Mustang’s unamused face, “she pinched your cheek, oh my god. Did you
sleep with her? Was that her revenge?”
Mustang squares his jaw and rubs unhappily at his cheek. “I think it was more
revenge for the fact I didn’t sleep with her,” he mutters.
“Oh?”
“I may have promised her a candlelight dinner and then not shown up when she
expected me to.”
“You ass, do you stand up women often?”
Mustang snorts. “It was a joke promise, first of all. How was I to know she
thought it had been genuine?”
“Your sense of humor is as dead as your work ethic, Mustang. It comes off
exactly like your flirting.”
“Does it, now?”
Ed pretends to miss the teasing edge in Mustang’s last statement. “Yeah, it’s
like you’ve got only two settings: complaints, and horny bastard.”
Mustang laughs at that, a soft throaty chuckle. “If I have two settings, you
have one – ornery brat.”
“At least ornery brat doesn’t come off as desperate.”
“I am not desperate, Fullmetal.”
“Sure, right, if your little black book full of women is any indication.”
“I am not arguing this with you,” Mustang huffs. “I doubt you’ve even had the
privilege of being kissed yet. You have no grounds to criticize my dating
life.”
“Fuck you, Mustang, I’ve been kissed—”
“Your mother doesn’t count.”
Ed stops, mouth open to his next insult, but it closes. He swallows, focuses on
his champagne. “Don’t you bring up my mother.”
“I – I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“Whatever.” He covers his grimace by downing the champagne. The alcohol burns
all the way down, bitter as the discomfort that’s rapidly filling in the space
between them again.
He’s saved the embarrassment by another of Mustang’s military friends
interrupting to make small talk. The next hour passes like the people talking
to the Colonel: in bursts, awkwardly, and without warning. Ed takes solace in
Mustang’s obvious dislike of the whole socializing thing, deciding it to be an
equivalent payment to the uncalled-for remark about Trisha.
Newly forgiven, he rolls his eyes at Mustang when the others aren’t looking.
There are a few overly pompous individuals deserving of mocking imitation
behind their back; the way Mustang has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep
a straight face makes the whole night almost worth it.
Finally, when the rotund Lieutenant Colonel regaling them with pointless
stories waddles his way off, Mustang dissolves into a fit of laughter. He bends
over, clutching his knees, wheezing, “Your face, and the way you held your
hands,I’ve never seen something so perfect in my life—”
“Mustang my boy!” Ed says in a deep boom, mimicking the man’s voice now. “Have
I told you the one about the tiger? I was just taking a nice bubble bath,
minding my own business—”
“Stop, stop,oh god, Edward, I’m going to die.”
“And this tiger just jumps right in with me, like my late wife Eugenia used to
do…”
Mustang grabs his shoulder, silent laughter wracking his frame. Encouraged, Ed
continues. “And by god, just like my beloved wife, that tiger started yowling
until I would scrub its back with my bath poof—are you crying?”
Pawing at his face, Mustang thumps Ed on the shoulder a few times, lungs
squeaking between silent guffaws.
“You’re actually crying!” Ed laughs, Mustang’s glee infectious. The Colonel
catches his left wrist and tugs him toward a balcony, hiccupping now, calming
as they reach the fresh night air.
He doesn’t let go of Ed’s wrist immediately, and the skin tingles with the
imprint of his hand.
“I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in ages,” Mustang admits, still
chortling. He swipes at his eyes again, boyish grin lighting up his alcohol-
pinked face. Ed can’t help but mirror it, leaning against the balcony so he
doesn’t feel as awkward standing next to this abruptly fascinating man.
“Better entertainment than the cellist in the corner?” Ed asks, smirking.
“Definitely,” Mustang replies, grin becoming gentle, gaze turning liquid as he
meets Ed’s eyes.
Ed’s stomach does a handspring and lands somewhere in the vicinity of his
esophagus. He wants to look away, but it’s become somehow incredibly important
not to be the first to break eye contact; he doesn’t expect Mustang’s heated
gaze to continue this long, though, and even standing outside his clothing
feels restrictive and too warm. His shoulders draw up almost on their own,
framing his ears like embarrassed bookends, but he still refuses to look away.
He will win this game, whatever it is. He has to.
“We’ve been here long enough,” Mustang murmurs, just loud enough Ed can catch
it over the tinkling hum of the ballroom inside. “I think nobody will miss us
too terribly if we cut and run now.”
“What are you suggesting?” Ed wonders aloud, tensing at the way his voice comes
out breathless. Stupid, stupid. Stupid tells, stupid hormones, stupid Colonel.
If he notices, Mustang doesn’t comment. “There’s a quaint little café just
around the corner from here. They might still be open.”
“Yeah?”
“They have roast beef sandwiches you’d love.”
Ed’s toes curl in his uncomfortable dress shoes. “You paying?”
Mustang smiles gently, eyelids lowering until his eyes are sultry slits. “Of
course.”
Ed pretends his shiver is from the breeze, and pushes himself off the balcony’s
edge to stalk back inside. “Well? Don’t just stand there, lead the way.” Ed’s
not positive what’s happening, but he’s pretty sure the Colonel just asked him
on a date.
Mustang follows, resting a hand on Ed’s lower back for just a moment before
continuing ahead of him.
Ed may in fact die tonight. Just keel over dead from a pulmonary embolism.
He thinks he might be okay with that.
Mustang swears the café is close, but one block quickly becomes two, and then
three, and Ed starts to think maybe it doesn’t exist at all. He’s about to
voice this just as a distant boom of thunder interrupts, and they’re suddenly
pelted with freezing rain.
“Shit!” Ed swears, ducking his head instinctively. His bangs already plaster to
his face, framing the world with soggy golden strands. Mustang yelps and shrugs
out of his coat, holding it over his head in a makeshift umbrella. Ed follows
suit, wrapping his jacket over his head, and they stumble together down the
street, avoiding rapidly growing puddles.
“I know it’s around here somewhere,” Mustang apologizes, squinting through the
downpour. He concentrates so hard on finding the sign that he doesn’t notice
the puddle. The water is at least four inches deep, soaking his sock and pant
leg immediately. He swears, shakes his foot to rid it of water in a completely
pointless gesture; Ed laughs at him, bent over to avoid the rain.
“You’re drunk,” he snorts.
“Probably,” Mustang confides, grinning despite the wet.
He feels giddy, happier than he’s been in a while – until he steps on
something, a pebble perhaps, and abruptly finds himself ass-down in the gutter.
He squawks, flailing, but there’s no easy way to get up.
Mustang’s laugh is a clear note in the pitter-patter of rain. His hand is cold
but firm; Ed grasps it gratefully and yanks himself out of the street. The
water has soaked through his pants and boxers, and his tailbone is probably
bruised. He feels like his bones absorbed the essence of the chill, becoming
ice themselves, brittle and crystalline. He tries to keep his teeth from
chattering, but it’s an impossible task; Mustang stops laughing and looks at
him closely.
“You’re too wet. We need to get you dry before you go hypothermic,” he
concludes, all hints of playfulness gone.
Ed agrees on the diagnosis, but he’s not too cold to be cranky about it. “If
you weren’t such a doofus, maybe I wouldn’t have fallen over.”
“But the fall was such a graceful one,” Mustang jokes – and really, it does
sound like flirting, Ed wasn’t wrong about that – raising an arm to hail a
military car sluicing past.
Thankfully it stops, lets them in with relatively little complaint. Mustang
gives directions to his apartment while Ed shivers in the seat, arms wrapped
firmly around himself. He lost his tux jacket somewhere between the gutter and
the car, but he can’t bring himself to care. His shirt is almost translucent,
clinging to his goose-pimpled arms and chest.
He jumps as Mustang pushes his sopping bangs out of his face and tucks them
behind an ear. “Goodness, you’re soaked.”
“You don’t look much better,” Ed grits out between his teeth. The Colonel’s
shirt is peppered with spots of wet, making him look like a rather poor excuse
for a Dalmatian. His tie, no doubt some expensive silk, is ruined.
“The important thing to note is, I’m not a pneumonia risk,” Mustang tuts,
tucking the other half of Ed’s bangs out of the way.
At least he can hide his trembling underneath the shivers already clawing at
his spine.
“As soon as we get in, I’ll draw a hot bath and see about laundry,” he
promises, an earnestness finding its way into his voice that Ed has never heard
before.
“You just want… to get me out of my clothes… horny bastard,” Ed manages, teeth
clattering.
“As delightful as that sounds, I would never take advantage. You’re practically
an icicle.” He kneads at Ed’s flesh hand, encouraging warmth. Ed defiantly
stares out the window until they reach Mustang’s apartment, ignoring the gentle
pressure.
The trip inside is awkward. Mustang gives his jacket to Ed, who promptly
rejects the offer and flings himself out of the car. The sudden return of icy
rain against his already frigid skin has him yelping, without any strength to
complain or struggle when Mustang scoops him up and jogs to the front door.
He’d bitch about it, as Mustang continues to carry him up a staircase and into
a cozy apartment, but he’s just so damn cold. It takes enough concentration in
preventing his teeth from clacking together so hard they chip, let alone
finding the necessary words to tell Mustang exactly what he thinks about being
carried like some kind of child.
True to his word, Mustang deposits him in the bathroom, rolling up his sleeves
and starting a bath immediately. The steam swirls up and caresses his face. Ed
groans appreciatively, closing his eyes as he sinks down and sits with a plop
on the tiled floor.
He starts when gentle fingers start to undo his bowtie. He opens his eyes
warily, but Mustang is an amicable distance away, businesslike expression on
his face as he removes the garment.  Ed watches, tension keeping him immobile.
The bowtie is dropped onto the floor with a wet smack and then Mustang’s
fingers are back, flicking open the button at his neck and working quickly
downward.
“H-Hey now,” Ed stutters. His tongue is clumsy and heavy in his mouth. “I can
undress myself.”
“Mm,” Mustang replies, not listening as he reaches around him to unfasten the
cummerbund. The wet silk clings to the buckle and he grunts in frustration as
he tugs.
Ed’s cheeks are hot, no doubt bright red. The Colonel’s face is too close, arms
around him in an awkward farce of an embrace; he’s crouched before Ed, between
his knees. Ed’s blood battles between boiling and freezing, uncertain which to
settle on. A fever, he thinks, biting his tongue to keep in a gasp as Mustang
finally gets the band of silk loose, fingers dragging against his sides as he
pulls it free.
Deft fingers tug shirt ends from the waistband of his pants and slide drenched
fabric over his shoulders. The only thing between Ed’s thrumming chest and
Mustang’s hands is his undershirt. It’s hardly an obstruction, though; the
fabric clings to him, caressing the valleys and hills of his abdomen, stretched
translucent over the cavern of his belly button.
Mustang’s hand alights at his waistband again. Ed suddenly finds the motivation
to shove him away, swearing vaguely in the hopes the other man won’t notice the
flutter in his pulse.
“I can do it,” he snaps. Mustang’s eyes cut back to Ed’s face, a hint of
surprise in the deep blue. Then it’s gone, back to cool appraisal as he slides
gracefully to stand, brushing imagined dust off his knees.
“You like stew, right?” Mustang asks casually, as if he hadn’t just half
undressed his subordinate a few seconds ago. Ed nods and scowls until he
leaves, closing the door gently behind him.
It takes a few minutes of awkward fumbling to get out of his pants, but his
under things are an easier task. His skin pulls taut at the cold, his pores
pebbly and rough. His automail ports ache, but the bath is nearly full, so Ed
steps in without further delay, sinking to the bottom until his chin is halfway
submerged. He sighs, a deep satisfied sound. Glorious, wonderful hot water.
The door opens without warning and Mustang steps inside. Ed shrieks, hunching
down to hide himself in the water. Mustang just smirks at him, scoops up the
wet clothing and leaves again.
Ed frowns into the water, grateful for the steam hiding him and his
embarrassment. He should have locked the door so fucking Mustang couldn’t just
come in as he pleased, but that was before he was thinking clearly. Cold always
makes him a little sluggish.
He’s not sure how long he takes in the bath, but he waits until the water is on
the cool end of lukewarm before he drags himself out of it. A pile of light
blue fluffy towels sits in the corner; he takes one for his waist and rubs
another on his head. It drops into the puddle he made, and he pads carefully to
the door, opening it. Towel clutched around him, he tiptoes into the hallway
and toward the smell of beef stew, where he finds Mustang wearing a faded pair
of pajama pants and an undershirt, humming out of tune as he stirs the pot on
the stove. Ed clears his throat, not sure what to say.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” he manages finally.
“Admittedly not well. This is from a can.”
Mustang turns, eyes flicking briefly to Ed’s bare chest before finding their
way back to his face. “You better?”
“Uh, yeah. What did you do with my clothes?”
He turns back to the stove. “They’re in the community wash right now,
downstairs. Should be done in an hour or so.”
Ed feels his skin prickle, too aware of his nakedness. “What am I supposed to
wear, then?” he snaps.
Mustang gestures vaguely behind him. “If you go to my room, furthest door down
the hall, there are sleeping clothes in the armoire, third drawer down. You're
welcome to borrow any you think would fit.”
His lip rises in a silent snarl, but he manages to hold it in, turning and
stalking down the hallway. The bedroom door is ajar, and he pauses. It’s
fucking weird stepping into another person’s bedroom, isn’t it? he thinks to
himself, pushing it open.
The floor is clean, marred only by Mustang’s wet dress shoes sitting carelessly
on a mat in the corner. Curious, he inspects the walls; they’re mostly bare,
with a few framed watercolors. He reaches the bedside table, where a photo
sits. He picks it up to look closer: Mustang and Hughes, barely older than he
is now, hanging on each other with the kind of hopeful grin only new recruits
have, before they see the reality of war. Ed sets the frame back down and
swallows past the lump suddenly obstructing his breathing, coughing into his
fist to dislodge it.
He focuses his attention on the bed, instead. Enormous, probably king-sized,
swathed in a soft charcoal comforter the Ed really wants to rumple, just to mar
this odd pristine quality of the room. Does he even live here? He scrutinizes
the headboard, only to be disappointed in the lack of tick marks. Letting the
towel drop, he throws it onto the plump pillows, not without some rancor. The
idea that Mustang will have to put his head on something that has rubbed on his
ass leaves him with a heady sense of delight.
The armoire is a simple thing, but tall and made of sleek ebony. He finds the
third drawer and opens it, pawing carelessly through it for something even
remotely close to his size. After throwing every article of clothing onto the
floor, he decides maybe he had better look again. He sighs, glaring at the heap
as if it personally affronted him.
Ten minutes later, he tromps out in an over-sized tee declaring ALL THIS AND A
BIG DICK (probably a stupid present from a stupid friend, because he can’t see
Mustang honestly buying himself the thing), and a pair of flannel bottoms he
transmuted to fit. The extra fabric was repurposed as roomy pockets, which he
shoves his hands into, glad for somewhere to put them. The flannel rubs against
his bare skin, soft and dangerous. He feels dirty and wrong, wearing it with
nothing underneath, but Mustang stole his boxer shorts with the rest of the
laundry, and he sure as hell isn’t borrowing a pair.
Mustang is already sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of soup, staring at
it like it holds the secrets to the universe. Ed flops into the opposite chair,
starting into the stew with gusto; Mustang looks up, startled slightly, then
barks a laugh.
“I thought I got rid of that shirt ages ago,” he muses. “Maes got it for me,
for my, god, what was it, twenty fifth birthday, I think?” He shakes his head,
smile turned wistful and a little sad.
“Clearly you kept it just so it could be worn by someone who actually fits the
slogan,” Ed razzes, willing himself not to turn red. He lifts the soup bowl in
its entirety and slurps, hiding his face.
Mustang raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Oh?” he says. “That’s a big role to fit,
Fullmetal. Are you sure you’re upto fulfilling that claim?”
Ed splutters in his stew. “Who are you saying is so small even his, uh, you
know,has a height deficiency?”
“We’re all grown up, here, Edward. You can use grown up words.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Ed mutters, certain his face is pink, if not a
brilliant crimson.
“And anyway, I never said your cock had a deficiency. I’m sure it’s a healthy
size.” Mustang’s smile is too amused, a wicked curl pulling at the edges.
Definitely red now, if the way he feels like he’s on fire is any indication. He
doesn’t even have anything to say to that. How are you supposed to respond to
your commanding officer when he’s complimenting you on your dick?
“But as a man of science, I’m afraid I can’t accept your assertion without a
measure of proof.” He steeples his fingers over his bowl.
“Did you just. Did you just ask to see my – my penis?” Ed coughs.
“Did I?” Mustang blinks, feigning innocence.
“Don’t act all clueless, you shit. You want to – I don’t even knowwhat you want
to do.”
“Have I upset you?” he asks, still so casual and detached, like he hasn’t just
taken that last flying leap into territory they’ve been tiptoeing around for
ages.
He sputters again, looks down at his empty bowl, then at the wallpaper, then at
the window above the sink. The truth of the matter is, Mustang really hasn’t
upset him. He’s actually made him curious, in a not-quite-scientific kind of
way. More of a super-aware-of-my-current-lack-of-shorts kind of way. An I’m-
wearing-his-old-clothing kind of way. A we’re-in-his-apartment-alone kind of
way.
“Edward?” Mustang murmurs, finally sounding a fraction of the torment Ed feels.
He turns to look at the man again, which is a big mistake. Mustang’s face is
earnest, a little apologetic, and absolutely transfixing. Their eyes click,
locking together like some form of planet and moon; Ed isn’t sure which one of
them is caught in orbit. All he knows is the deep, slow breath Mustang pulls in
through his nose, and the way his eyelids relax as he leans across the table
and cups Ed’s face in a broad hand.
“Colonel,” he says, like a warning, or maybe an entreaty. Mustang leans
forward, brushing their noses together, lips barely grazing Ed’s own – and
wouldn’t he be this kind of tease, pretending Ed’s heart isn’t a fragile,
trembling bird in his hand. Abruptly, Ed is angry at him, for all this soft
banter and softer lips, and crushes his mouth forward against his Colonel’s.
The sound of surprise he gets is wonderful, until Mustang seizes control again,
reaching his free hand around the back of Ed’s neck. His fingers wind in Ed’s
damp hair and pull him closer, kisses bruising but perfect, with all the fire
Ed expects from the Flame Alchemist.
Kissing over the table is awkward. He doesn’t want to stop, but there’s only so
long he can stay in a half-standing half-sitting crouch, the table smashed into
his gut. So he pulls back, pushes his chair out of his way with a little more
force than necessary (it falls over), and stalks around the table. Mustang’s
hands find their way into his hair again, accompanied by a sound of pure want.
Feeling foolish, Ed clambers into his lap, legs inexpertly splayed across his
Colonel’s thighs. It doesn’t seem to bother Mustang that Ed has no experience;
he groans again, nipping at his mouth and jawline, hands making their way down
his back and oh, that’s his ass Mustang is grabbing, that is definitely his ass
and Mustang is pulling him closer by it, cupping in a way that pulls his cheeks
apart slightly as he’s dragged forward and he doesn’t think he’s ever been this
hard in his life,even when he first discovered what exactly his dick was for
and tried not to masturbate for a week out of pure embarrassment.
He’s aware, in some detached sense, that the noise he’s making is incredibly
shameful, but Mustang has begun mouthing at his pulse, and is subtly, steadily,
grinding his crotch into Ed’s. Nothing else really seems to matter, not with
the two points of throbbing pleasure sending a blanket of tight buzzing over
his entire sense of being. He concentrates on breathing, feeling somehow
detached from life, like he’s swimming in some other plane where there’s
nothing but Mustang’s mouth and Mustang’s fingers nimbly finding his waistband
and creeping inside—
He whimpers a curse as the older man’s fingers wrap around his cock. Pressure
is building low, abs tight and just about there, and then Mustang thumbs his
slit roughly and he breaches the wall, spilling out into an endless chasm of
white-hot nothingness, wrent from his body completely.
It takes him a moment, but he settles back into his limbs loosely, heart still
pounding in his fragile ribcage. His vision swims into focus to catch Mustang
tonguing the mess from his hand, pupils blown wide.
“Oh,” Ed murmurs, air punched from his lungs. Mustang regards him again with
heavy eyes, flushed pink with arousal.
He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t even look smug, just brushes his wet thumb against
Ed’s mouth and says low, voice rough, “I should have asked permission.”
There’s nothing Ed can do in response but laugh, a sound soft as baby feathers
as he finds the oxygen in his lungs again. “You idiot,” he says, fondly,
pillowing his nose in the crook of Mustang’s neck. The Colonel draws in a deep
breath, then lets it out, lazily drawing circles on Ed’s back with a fingertip.
“I’m glad you’re pleased with my handiwork,” he whispers into Ed’s hair, “but I
still have a bit of a predicament.” He shifts, rubbing his hardness through two
layers of fabric against Ed’s inner thigh. Ed shivers and bites the fleshy part
of Mustang’s shoulder. The man’s resulting groan rumbles through them both.
“Fuck,” Ed hisses against his skin.
“Yes,” Mustang replies in a puff of breath. “Yes, I agree.” He shifts Ed again,
closer, pressing their chests together, and the ridge of his cock grinds
between his cheeks, utterly obscene. Ed swears and bites him again, harder.
“Aah, god, you would be a biter,” Mustang pants, finding the bottom of Ed’s
shirt and dancing his fingers beneath the fabric. Ed arches at the touch, hips
sliding forward. They both groan, and then Ed is kissing him again, frantic and
insistent, grinding back against him with an erection trapped between their
stomachs.
“Already?” Mustang grins, drawing a zigzag on Ed’s lower back. Ed whines and
attacks his mouth again, arms loose around the Colonel’s neck. To his great
disappointment, Mustang pulls away again, looking at him with consideration.
“What?” Ed snaps. He doesn’t like the look, both probing and vaguely
sympathetic.
“Mmm. As much as I love the direction this is taking, we don’t have to do
anything you’re not comfortable with.”
Not at all what Ed expected him to say. “What? What part of this seems
uncomfortable to you?”
To prove a point, he rolls his hips, holding in a gasp at the rub of flannel
against his entrance.
Gentle hands stroke down his sides, then find his face. “Edward,” the man
murmurs, “you’re trembling.”
“Maybe because,” he stops, makes himself breathe – when had he stopped
breathing? – and continues, “maybe because you’ve stopped kissing me.”
“Or maybe because you’re not ready.”
Ed would hit him and stalk out of the room for that comment, but Mustang is
searing heat beneath him and that would just be proving his point. Instead he
snarls. “Like fuck I’m not ready,” he says against Mustang’s mouth, teeth bared
and ready to bite.
He’s not being taken seriously, not with the way Mustang just raises his
eyebrows. The man suddenly grasps his hips and thrusts up, hard, hard enough
that Ed’s eyes water and the nerves in his legs go spastic. If he was trembling
before, he’s shaking now, mouth slack and eyes wide. He can’t breathe. He can’t
breathe but he fights for it, heaving deep unstable breaths, clutching at the
front of Mustang’s undershirt.
“If that’s too intense for you,” Mustang murmurs against his cheek, “the rest
of it would be too much.”
“Sh-shut the fuck up,” Ed gasps, winding his fingers tighter in the ribbed
fabric, “and do that again.”
“Not here,” he replies in a commanding voice, gently freeing himself from Ed’s
clawing hands. “Bedroom. We’ll see where we go from there.”
“I would get up,” Ed says, trying not to sound snotty and failing, “but.” A
violent tremor wracks his form, and he squeezes his knees together around Roy’s
hips.
“Haah, god.” With his head thrown back, tight grin at the ceiling, Ed thinks
Mustang might be one of the hottest things in the universe.
Mustang brings his hands around Ed’s thighs and murmurs a warning before he
lifts, stands, holding all the weight of them both. Ed gasps and tightens his
legs around the man, throws his arms around his neck again, face pressed to the
hollow of his neck. He puffs air from its curve, where he feels the tempo of
Mustang’s pulse, an allegro beating on a silent drum heard only through the
meeting of their skin.
He concentrates on that comfortable connection until the soft expanse of a
mattress startles the breath out of him.
“We’re here,” Mustang smirks down at him, arms to either side of his face.
It’s a hell of a time to get shy, but that’s Ed’s life: a series of badly timed
fuck-ups on his part, all serving to make his life that much worse. He
swallows, feeling too exposed, and struggles to keep eye contact.
“Hi,” he says, softly, like he doesn’t still have his legs wrapped around
Mustang’s waist, like the heat of their arousal isn’t pushing into each other
insistently.
Mustang kisses him sweetly, lips the barest brush of a smile against his.
“Hello.” He props himself up again, regarding Ed carefully. “Has anyone ever
told you you’re gorgeous?”
Ed shifts, unable to look at him. “You’re still drunk,” he mutters.
“Maybe so,” Mustang retorts, pressing their foreheads together, “but that
doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
With his eyes closed, the intensity of Mustang’s eyes on him seems less
needling, but he can still feel the gentle exhale of his breath, two inches
away. The Colonel tips his head back down to kiss him again tenderly, a slow
burn much different from the raging fire of before. The shivers curl from the
base of his neck downward, settling deep in the curve of his stomach.
“You’re beautiful,” he continues at a reverent murmur. “A vision in gold.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Ed says, wanting suddenly to push him away and leave. How
dare he say something like that, like it’s not delusional, or a straight-out
lie? Does Mustang really think pointless flattery is going to get him any extra
points? Ed already has his legs spread for the man (though there’s still the
unfortunate pajama pants in the way) – what more does he fucking want?
“Do you know how many men would kill to be in my place?”
“An even zero?” He turns his face away, pressing his cheek against the cool
fabric of Mustang’s pillow.
Instead of putting him off, Mustang takes the opportunity to nip at the
juncture of his ear and jaw line. “Denial doesn’t suit you,” he breathes into
the shell of Ed’s ear, following with another soft nip.
“Nngh. Don’t do that.” Ed doesn’t push him away, though, just presses his flesh
hand to the expanse of Mustang’s chest.
“Do you want me to stop?” It’s not a threat, or even a tease; it’s an honest
question, which almost makes it worse, because it means there’s a part of the
Colonel that actually cares about Ed’s comfort levels.
Ed can’t bring himself to answer, hoping his silence is enough of a ‘no’ for
the Colonel without him having to admit it.
The damp towel falls on him, yanking him out of his funk. “What the fuck?” he
says through the terry cloth. Mustang laughs. Ed wishes he could see the man’s
face.
“Enough with your sourpuss,” he says. Ed can hear the smile in his voice.
He wrestles the towel away just in time to witness Mustang in the process of
removing his undershirt. The ribbed fabric blocks his face, but the expanse of
muscle is more than enough distracting to make up for it – strong pecs
bracketed by wings on his ribcage, taut abs rippling down to his navel, where a
trail of black curls starts, teasing a path to his waistband, which rides low,
pulled by his obvious erection—
Ed gulps. This is – it’s more than he bargained for. Maybe the bastard is
right, maybe he’s not ready for this at all.
The shirt flies somewhere toward the floor and Mustang brings his hands to
spread against the comforter, bracketing the span of Ed’s shoulders. His gaze
is thoughtful, gentle, not probing or uncomfortable except in how focused it
is. Ed holds it stubbornly, breath puffing between his slack lips.
“It’s all up to you how far this goes,” Mustang murmurs, head tilting slightly
as he looks down on Ed. “It’s really rather a bad idea already. Fraternization
and such.”
“So why did you kiss me, bastard?” Ed whispers, fiddling with the hem of his
shirt.
“Alcohol is a great tool for ignoring idiotic laws.” He smiles a little,
reaching up to stroke back Ed’s hair. “In the morning I’ll probably fear for my
life should Lieutenant Hawkeye find out.”
Something inside him twists, mirroring the fabric beneath his hands. He’d never
given himself time to think about it before tonight, the odd attraction-
irritation he has for the Colonel, but now it feels like years of stealth
fantasies are pouring out. He doesn’t like the implication that this will be
just another of Mustang’s dirty secrets. Isn’t this supposed to be more than
that? Aren’t theysupposed to be more?
The set of his jaw must give him away, because Mustang stops smiling.
“Edward?”
“It’s nothing,” he grunts, not sure where he stands anymore. He wants this,
he’ll admit that readily, but it’s complicated. Why does everything with Roy
fucking Mustang have to be this complicated?
“It can’t be nothing,” Mustang snorts, “or there would be less lying there
awkwardly and more kissing me like you were in the kitchen.”
“I’m not lying here awkwardly,asshole.” He wriggles a little, huffing out a
breath in his attempt to appear less frazzled than the tension gripping his
spine.
All Mustang does is raise one infuriatingly perfect eyebrow. Before he can stop
himself, Ed flings his hands out to the other man’s shoulders and rolls them
over, pinning him heavily to the bed. The look of genuine surprise that
flickers across Mustang’s face is soworth it, despite the cacophony of his
heart against his lungs and the sharp warmth of Mustang’s hips against his
inner thighs.
Unfortunately for his internal histrionics, Mustang gets over the shock
quickly. Broad hands way too soft for a military officer’s slide their way
easily under his shirt, skirting up along the knobs of his spine.
“Nngh,” Ed says eloquently, his hold-pin slackening. Mustang wrestles his shirt
off of him before he realizes what’s happening. He watches the washed-out gray
material fly through the air toward the floor in a detached sort of way; easier
than concentrating on the sudden ripple of goose bumps across his shoulders, or
the twisted mess of scars at the edge of his automail.
Mustang leans up to kiss his skin where it meets metal, sending a wracking
shiver through him. “Beautiful,” the man mumbles against him, grasping at his
hips and kissing a straight line down his chest.
Sitting back against Mustang’s legs and weaving his fingers gently into the
man’s hair, Ed lets him. The Colonel nips and soothes at him, thumbs rubbing
infuriating circles into the rise of his hipbones, just above the line of his
pajama pants. His kissing continues as low as he can before his flexibility
gives out – just above Ed’s belly button. He flicks a tongue out, teasing,
against the dip, then pulls away, laying back against the pillows with a
falsely-coquettish smile. His hands are still on Ed’s hips, searing brands into
him.
“Well?” Mustang rumbles. “Do your worst, handsome.”
He feels a bit lightheaded, all the blood in his upper body suddenly sluicing
downward in a neon pulse. Thank god the man is looking at his face – the soft
fabric of his pants is tacky where it’s stuck to his leaking erection. The
little spurts of warmth make it hard to concentrate, Mustang’s hands are so
close.He hazards a look down at the other man’s crotch and oh shit – the head
of his erection has made its way out of his pants, just the top of the ruddy
crown and its tiny slit, like some kind of shy schoolboy hiding his face behind
an oversized jacket. Ed sucks in a breath and grazes a thumb against it,
marveling at the way it twitches beneath him, at the way Mustang groans, thigh
muscles jumping underneath him in their attempt to keep still. His thumb pulls
away sticky.
“God damn,Fullmetal,” Mustang puffs through clenched teeth, “you tease,
please.”
He shuffles backward, swallowing a few times to find his voice. “Ah, hm, take
off your pants.” It falls dismally short of an order, but apparently that’s
enough; Mustang’s adam’s apple bobs as he removes his ardent hands from Ed and
tugs at his waistband. Transfixed, Ed stares at the cock as it’s revealed,
darkly flushed and pulsing out clear fluid in even bursts. Ed leans onto his
knees, ignoring the aborted kicks to get the pants off. His throat is abruptly
dry, but his mouth waters, soft palate lifting on its own, as if to make room
for something large.
Ed sucks in a hard breath through his nose, tentatively dragging a line down
the length of it with his flesh hand. The sound Mustang makes is almost a sob.
“Edward,” he whispers feverishly.
Ed grasps him gently, exploring the weight like he would a scientific
apparatus. It’s heavier than he expected, and soft; softer than he thought a
grown man’s penis should be. The scientist in him wonders if this is normal, or
if Mustang is just an exception.
He toys with the head, wondering at the lack of foreskin. It seems bare without
it, almost silly, like a mushroom. Ed runs a finger under the lip of it,
grinning at the choked moan that results.
He wants to run his tongue along it, swallow it as deep as he can – and where
the hell did that come from? Ed tries to cling to some form of disgust or
aversion but his throat is working and the idea isn’t leaving. He has never
given this thought at all, but his jaw is slack, tongue pooling in the bowl of
his teeth, the phantom sensation of it against his cheeks, palate, throat; so
real he can almost taste it, and he has to swallow, bring his tongue out to wet
his chapped lips.
It’s hard to remind himself of how gross this is when Mustang’s cock is right
there, gleaming wet in the dim light from his lamp. He slips down between
Mustang’s knees, still grasping its base gently, and rubs his lips against it,
just to see. Precum smears over his mouth, heady and masculine. He licks his
lips again, taking a moment to pursue the taste: slippery-sweet, unexpectedly,
but vaguely salty, too, a slight tang that clings to his tongue pleasantly. He
lets the head into his mouth and hums a little, his saliva glands bursting
almost painfully to accommodate it.
Mustang’s hands slide into his bangs and grip hard, trembling. Ed smirks around
the cock in his mouth and pulls off with an experimental suck. A string of spit
traces the line between his pursed lips and where they were a breath ago.
A strangled sound followed by pleading nails against his scalp makes him
momentarily forget what he was going to say. After a moment, the words
resurface, and he murmurs them with lips barely brushing Mustang’s blistering
skin.
“Do you like that, bastard?” he teases, pausing to kiss the head he’s only made
stickier with his saliva. “D’you like it when your subordinates go down on
you?”
“Ahh, god, Edward, please don’t tease,” Mustang groans. His legs are a
trembling cage around Ed, knees pressed against his shoulders tightly. Ed
stares at him incredulously, but the tortured expression on the man’s face
seems to be real; eyebrows pulled together tightly, mouth slack and panting.
Eyes piercing and pleading.
If Ed knew this is all it would take to make his commanding officer cede power,
he might have gone to his knees yearsago.
Turning his focus back on the cock in his hand, he studies it, considering
briefly its similarity to street food. He’s never had a problem shoving an
entire hot dog into his mouth, and Mustang isn’t so much bigger than all that;
it should fit. Taking a deep breath and letting his jaw open loosely, he slides
his mouth down onto the erection. His tongue laves the bottom; he decides he
likes the feel of it, opens his throat and sucks in more, gagging slightly as
it hits his uvula and keeps going.
Mustang whispers platitudes and praises, nails scratching soothing lines into
his head again. There’s no snark of back-handed compliments, just honest
worship in the timbre of his voice. Ed could kiss him, but his mouth is busy;
he breathes carefully through his nose and pets the inside of Mustang’s thigh
gently with his automail hand. A swallow, and then he pulls back up, tongue
pressed hard to the twitching vein on the underside.
It’s during his third time of taking it all the way down, nose buried in coarse
curls at the base, that Mustang chokes out something that really does make him
gag. Gag and pull off, mouth a drooling mess, and demand he explain.
“What did you just say?”
“Mnh, ah, sorry—”
“I didn’t ask you to apologize, I asked you what you said.” He sounds angry,
hell, maybe even feels angry, but he needs to know if his ears are failing him,
or if the man really—
“I love you,” Mustang repeats softly, pulling a hand from Ed’s head to cover
his eyes and rub. “And I realize telling you that might be the biggest mistake
of the entire night—”
Ed doesn’t let him finish his thought. He growls at the pajama pants as he
shucks them off too-slow, but they’re gone, giving him the room to crawl back
up over Mustang and straddle him heavily, pressing his ass against the hard
sticky mess of the Colonel’s erection.
“Fuck me,”he hisses, rolling his hips, never more sure of wanting anything.
Mustang swears and fumbles to grab his ass, spreading his legs wider and
thrusting up against him. Ed chokes back a sob, biting his lip so hard he
thinks it might bleed, and grinds back, hands finding purchase against the taut
muscles of Mustang’s stomach.  His automail will bruise, he realizes
distractedly, but Mustang doesn’t seem to care.
“Condoms,” the man grunts out, “top drawer of my nightstand—”
“Don’t care,” Ed interrupts, finding a steady rhythm of grinding, “unless
you’ve got something, but I’m gonna be really fucking pissedif you just let me
suck on a diseased cock.”
Mustang groans, but rolls them over, toward the nightstand, and yanks it open.
Ed can’t see what he grabs, but he whines when the heat of the man’s chest
leaves as he sits up and rips open a small packet. Ed watches somewhat grumpily
as the thin latex rolls over Mustang’s perfect cock.
“This is stupid,” he mutters.
“This is important,” Mustang counters crossly. “Never trust someone’s word when
it comes to sex.”
“So what, you’re saying you have something?” He doesn’t think so, but the
sudden possibility makes him queasy.
“No. I’m saying, many men will lie in order to get what they want.” He leans
back over and kisses Ed hard in apology. “God, you taste like me,” he pants as
he pulls away, pressing their foreheads together a moment before sitting back
up and fiddling with something else.
“Now what?” Ed complains breathlessly, propping himself on his elbows to watch.
Mustang laughs a little, showing him a bottle. “Honestly, Edward, did you
really think my cock would fit inside you without a little help?”
Heat prickles his face, but the majority of his circulation pushes downwards.
His erection is painfully hard, throbbing in time to his aggressive heartbeat;
he’s neglected it for a while, too focused on Mustang, but now it’s a harsh
reminder that he really, really wants to come, maybe all over Mustang’s perfect
chest, but preferably within the next few minutes. He gulps in air and tries to
ease himself back from the edge.
“Sorry if this is cold,” Mustang interrupts, suddenly prodding at him with a
sticky finger. His first instinct is to clamp his legs closed, a wave of
embarrassment and shame flushing through him, but the Colonel is gentle,
rubbing a slow circle around his entrance. Everywhere below his navel is a
pleasant tingle, and he relaxes, forces his breathing slow, and tries not to
bite his tongue in surprise when the finger presses past the ring of muscle
with a slight, inaudible pop.
“Oh,” he says stupidly. “That’s… okay then. Um.”
The finger presses deeper, still massaging circles against his insides. It’s
odd, but not unpleasant, just not at all where he expected this evening to end
up.
“That is your finger,” he announces. “That is your finger inside my ass.”
Mustang’s mouth is a funny, tight quirk, no doubt trying to hold back laughter.
“Yes. Yes it is.”
“This is fucking weird,” he mumbles, squirming. “Just hurry up already.”
And then Mustang does laugh, a bright sound that punctures the awkward feeling
sitting in Ed’s chest. “I’ll do my best, dearest.”
“Pet names? Shit, Mustang, already, on the first date?” He giggles nervously at
his stupid joke, but then he can’t stop. Mustang loves him and it’s their first
not-date, and he has a finger in his ass, and just called him dearest, and
they’re both naked and stupid-looking with hard dicks and he can’t stop
laughing. His face hurts with the force of his smile and he’s still laughing,a
stupid bubbly chortle that’s making his stomach flutter and his cheeks burn.
“Edward?” Mustang asks, voice light and chuckling, “Edward, what—”
“Just put in another finger, oh my god,” he wheezes. Mustang obeys.
The laughter punches out of him, replaced by a low groan at the burning
stretch. It hurts, but it’s nowhere near as painful as other things he’s
experienced. He focuses on his breathing again, and the sharp prickle of the
tight muscles being pulled open. It’s a good hurt, he decides, shifting down to
force the fingers deeper. A spike of pain corkscrews down his legs. He gasps,
throwing his head back against the pillow, and thrusts down again.
“Ohhh,” he groans, fists at his sides turning loose, palms up. He closes his
eyes and feels, the tight stretch, the puffed breath of Mustang’s loving
murmurs against his bent knee, the slick oil warming against his hotplate skin.
“Would you like another?” Mustang suggests, twisting the two he currently has
inside him. Ed gasps and arches his back, the aborted beginning of a swear
trapped heavily in the back of his throat.
“Yes,” he groans, opening his eyes again to watch.  Mustang pours some more oil
onto his hand and rubs at his entrance, slow and gentle, with a third finger,
thrusting the others and crooking them in spurts. Ed’s toes curl at the deep
roll of bliss from the stroking fingers, finding the burn lessening just as the
third finally works its way in to join the rest.
“Nnhh, Mustang,” he breathes, rocking into the man’s hand slowly, savoring the
burn and pulse from something his fingers are brushing against inside him.
“Good, so good.”
“Call me Roy,” Mustang whispers back, kissing his knee as he strokes that spot
again, rubbing at it until a haze of velvet creeps up Ed’s spine.
“Roy,” he moans for the man, legs spreading wider of their own accord. “Roy, so
good.”
“You like that?” Roy says lowly, twisting his fingers again and spreading them
apart. The burn returns full-force, with a suddenness that brings tears
pricking Ed’s eyes.
“Ohhhh fuck,” he whines, drawing his knees up to his sides to give him more
access. “Roy, please, I want you.” One touch on his cock now would set him off,
submerged so deeply in this perfect state of pain and rapture.
The fingers slide out and his muscles clench on nothing, just as confused as he
is. A low whine pushes from him impatiently as Roy slicks more of the oil on
his cock and positions himself.
“Ready?” the man breathes.
Ed tosses him a sweat-slicked glare and hooks his legs over Roy’s shoulders.
“Do it,” he urges.
The pull of his muscles is more even, stretching a perfect circle around Roy’s
cock as it presses gently forward. Ed breathes out slowly and wills himself to
relax and let it in, millimeter by agonizing millimeter.  When the head finally
pushes past the ring of muscle they both groan, Roy mouthing at his neck
clumsily.
The rest of the length is a pleasure-burn, pulling him further open the deeper
Roy gets. The spikes of pain shoot to his toes, carving a muzzy trail out of
his bones. Their connection throbs, an arrhythmic beat composed of both their
heartbeats.
“Let me know when you’re good,” Roy says against his collarbone. Ed pets his
head with his flesh hand, ankles crossing behind Roy’s back in a farce of a
hug.
“I’m always good,” he sneers without fire. They’re already dripping with sweat,
sticking together where they meet. The comforter is a ball of heated wrinkles
plastered to his back. Roy nibbles at his neck, hands tracing out his sides
over and over with the fervency and repetition of prayer. As he works his mouth
up to Ed’s ear, his hands follow, burying into the still-damp messy hair that
fans around him on the pillow.
“I am the luckiest man alive,” he breathes into the shell of Ed’s ear, then
follows with a nip. “You’re perfect.”
“We went over this,” Ed starts, but trails off as his earlobe is teased between
sharp teeth. “Nngh. Move already, old man.”
He thrusts, pulling out slow and pressing back in just as carefully, but it’s
enough to make Ed lose his train of thought. The pace is maddening, a teasing
drag on his taut hole feeling pulled to its limit and past, brushing that wall
inside him that feels so delicious without enough friction to do much but
remind him flirtily it’s there. His cock twitches, reminding him it exists,
too, trapped loosely between their lower stomachs.
“M’not gonna break,” Ed pants, moving his hips up to meet Roy’s. The man gets
the hint, slick skin slapping against slick skin as he moves faster. Ed’s legs
tighten around him, fingers twisting in his hair, fumbling kisses over the
man’s forehead until he looks up and Ed can kiss him properly, tongues flicking
against each other wet and hot.
He feels like all he can do is hold on, Roy having found his pace, a hard
pounding Ed suspects he’ll feel for a week. Ed tries to reciprocate the
movement, but his body can’t find its way up, thrashing every direction but the
one he wants it to, so he lets himself go slack and just take it, sharing
kisses and shuddering gasps between red lips.
Roy tips him backward slightly, the man’s face pressed just above his head in
concentration, and the change of angle has Roy’s cock dragging painfully
against that thing inside him, massaging him higher and tighter and closer. It
hasn’t been long but Ed already desperately wants to come. He whimpers into the
strong shoulder offered to him, and Roy speeds up again. The headboard slams
against the wall obscenely, mattress squealing; he’s grateful this is happening
here, and not in the military dorms, where anyone could hear and know—
The brief thought of Roy taking him this hard in his own room is enough to
shove him bodily over the ledge. He wails and bites into flesh as his cock
spurts between them. Roy yelps roughly but doesn’t stop, thrusting through Ed’s
orgasm shallowly, the sudden pulsing clench of Ed’s ass keeping him mostly
immobile. He feels so full, and it hurts, that continued drag as he’s milked
for all he’s worth; he sobs through his teeth still latched onto bruising
muscle, feeling wrung out.
After a moment Roy shivers, hips erratic and voice a low keen. Ed feels the
man’s balls crawling where they’re pressed against him, the gentle swell of the
cock against his entrance as he comes.
The silence is almost audible, but not unpleasant. They take a moment to
breathe, Roy still inside him, neither of them particularly desperate for him
to leave. Ed resumes his gentle petting of the man, smoothing his hand over
hair and down a slackening back, tension soothing out between his fingers.
Roy breaks into the moment first, sleepily nuzzling into his hair. “I love
you,” he murmurs again, pressing a kiss to the sweat-damp tresses.
“Mm,” Ed replies, still at a loss for how to respond. What do you say to a man
fourteen years your senior – your commanding officer – who’s in love with you?
It should concern him more than it does. Instead, it wraps itself around his
ribs and strokes at his sternum, sitting warm and soft there like a small
animal. “No wonder I get away with so much shit.”
Roy laughs, a small breathless sound. “It’s hopeless, really.”
“Pretty ridiculous,” he agrees, finding a knot in Roy’s neck and rubbing it
loose. Roy hums appreciation and wiggles lower, mouth light against the place
metal meets skin on his shoulder. He tenses, but Roy just kisses it gently and
relaxes again, breathing in the scent of his sweat.
“Prime example of unfair bias. I’d make a terrible leader.”
“If your skill at fucking has anything to say about it, yeah,” Ed razzes.
Roy props himself up to frown down at him. Their chests pull apart slow and
sticky, glued together by Ed’s cum. “Excuse me,” he says with raised eyebrows,
“I don’t fuck, I make love.”
“Shut up. You are a giant cornball.”
“A giant cornball who just made you come for a good minute,” Roy reminds him,
smirking.
Ed flushes. “It was not that long.”
“It was,” Roy insists, finally pulling out and rolling beside him. The condom
is tied off and lobbed somewhere in the direction of the trash bin; Ed really
hopes Roy didn’t miss.
Broad arms pull him to a sticky chest and Ed balks.
“Gross, you’re covered in stuff, I’m not going to cuddle when you’re like
that.”
“But you will cuddle, provided I’m clean?” He can hearthe fucking smirk, he
doesn’t even have to look up.
“Shut up,” he says, but doesn’t deny it. “Where did that towel go?”
As reluctant as he is to move, he’s more reluctant to let the mess dry, so he
rolls off the bed onto his feet unsteadily.  The towel had somehow migrated and
become friends with Roy’s pajama pants, all the way at the foot of the bed, on
the floor. Ed groans and stands, wobbling on muscles of jelly until he can
snatch up the towel and throw it at Roy’s stupid smirking face.
Even covered in damp terry cloth, Roy is still smug. “Can you walk alright,
Edward? Need a hand?”
“Fuck you, I’m fine,” he snorts, hobbling his way back to his side of the bed.
A bruising throb has taken over his abdomen, and that paired with the noodle
limbs makes it difficult to stay upright. Thankfully he falls just as he
reaches the bed, which he plays off as on purpose.
Roy’s smirk softens into something altogether too gentle. Ed ignores it and
grabs the towel back from the bastard, wiping himself down and refusing to
look.
“The rain’s let up,” Roy murmurs, reaching out a hand to toy with a strand of
Ed’s hair. “You could go home, if you like. I could call a car for you.”
“What time is it?” He still refuses to look over, not sure how he could handle
the unadulterated affection he knows he’ll find if he does.
“Quarter to midnight,” Roy says, pointing out the clock on the wall.
“Oh fuck.”
“Hmm?”
“Al. He was supposed to get me when the party ended, he’s gonna be worried if
I’m not there—”
A phone in the other room rings, startling Ed enough that he drops the towel.
Roy reluctantly lets go of his hair and pads out the room, stark naked and
utterly too comfortable in his skin. Embarrassed, Ed works his way carefully
after the man, hunched as if it could hide his nakedness.
“Alphonse,” Roy is saying into the receiver when Ed gets there, “What a
coincidence, we were just talking about you. He’s here, if you’d like to talk
to him,” and then the receiver is being shoved at his face.
Ed takes it carefully, swallowing hard before talking. “Hey, Al.” He
congratulates himself on managing to keep a normal tone.
“Brother, what are you doing at the Colonel’s house?” Al’s voice is extra tinny
over the phone line, an echo of steel and expanse of wire.
A nervous laugh bubbles over his lips. “Um, it was raining, and we left early,
and he offered to wash my clothes.”
A beat of silence, then, “You know we have our own washing machines in the
dormitory, Brother.”
Why is his brother so observant? “I know, Al.”
“Are you wearing his clothes?” Al asks suddenly, voice lilting with a tease.
“Not anymore!” Ed snaps. “I mean. Shit.” His cheeks go hot and he scratches the
side of his neck. Roy smirks at him, leaned against the wall. Ed sticks out his
tongue.
“So if you’re not wearing his clothes, and yours are in the wash… just what are
you wearing, Brother?” Ed might actually have to kill him.
“I hate you,” he says.
“May I speak to the Colonel again?” Al asks sweetly. Ed nearly drops the
receiver in his haste to get rid of it.
“Hello?” Roy says, reverting back to his serious-Colonel-tone. “Ah. That would
be yes.” His eyebrows pull together. “Well… I wouldn’t want to say without
first consulting with him… Oh. If you put it that way.” His eyebrows suddenly
shoot up into his hairline, and if Ed isn’t mistaken, he’s going pale. “I would
never.” He winces as Al says something else, then rushes in apologetically,
“Please understand me when I say I will treat your brother with nothing but my
utmost respect.” He rubs his face, looking abruptly tired. “Here he is.” He
passes the phone back to Ed, who takes it dubiously.
“Yeah?”
“Take your time there, Brother,” Al says a little too cheerfully. Ed looks at
Roy again; the man looks vaguely ill.
“What the fuck did you say to him?” he demands.
“Nothing much,” Al says, tone the epitome of innocence. “Just what I expected
of him if you two are going to start dating.”
“Al, what the hell!”
“Have a nice evening!” Al chirrups, and then the line goes dead.
“Stupid meddling little brothers,” Ed grits between his teeth, slamming the
receiver back in its hook. “Did he threaten your life or something?”
“I’d really rather not repeat what he said,” Roy says, smoothing a nervous hand
through his mussed hair.
“Crimeny,” Ed grunts. He takes a step back toward the bedroom and his legs give
out, sending him careening into Roy’s chest.
“Hello, handsome,” Roy says in faux-surprise.
“I hate you too,” Ed grumbles. Roy ignores him and plucks him off the floor
easily, slinging him over a shoulder on his way back to the bedroom.
“What the fuck!” Ed screeches. “What are you, a caveman?!”
“A gentleman, carrying you so you don’t have to limp all the way to the bed,”
Roy smirks, setting him back down bodily when they get there.
Ed continues grumbling, but curls into a comfortable ball and closes his eyes.
“Dick.”
A gentle hand ghosts down his back. “You’re welcome to stay the night.”
“That’s the plan,” he grunts into the mussed comforter. “Are you gonna stand
there, or are you gonna come cuddle me, you ass?”
“I rather like the second option,” Roy retorts, pressing up behind him as he
folds himself onto the bed.
“Don’t think you can be a shithead just because you got in my pants,” Ed yawns.
The drape of Roy’s arm over his side is comforting, warm…
Roy whispers something into the back of his head, but he’s asleep before he can
discern its meaning.
He wakes to the most god-awful clattering ring. Panic grips his lungs until he
realizes the arm around him is Roy’s, the bed he’s in is also Roy’s, and
logically, then, the piece of shit alarm clock that woke him up must be Roy’s,
too.
“Can you do something about that?” he gripes into arm pillowed under his neck.
Roy mumbles something unintelligible and pulls away to put a hand on the device
sleepily. Blessed silence replaces the cacophony. Ed presses a sloppy kiss to
Roy’s arm in gratitude and tries to wiggle away so he can take a piss.
“What’re you doing?” Roy whines, still sleep-muzzy as he noses his way into
Ed’s hair and holds tighter.
“Do you want me to pee on you? Because in three seconds I will.” Roy lets go of
him.
The uncoordinated dance of a groggy morning spent with another person is odd
and a little uncomfortable. Ed stays huddled in the warmth of the bed as Roy
pulls something on, indiscriminate in his choice this early, so he can go
retrieve Ed's forgotten clothing from the night before. Ed hopes it's still
there; it'd be hells of awkward to show up at headquarters wearing Roy's
pajamas. Not that showing up in the dryer-rumpled party clothes will be much
better.
The clock on the wall ticks softly, drawing him out of him thoughts for the
moment. The quiet with Roy gone is a blanket of peace, tucking into the clean
corners of the room. This is what Roy wakes to, he realizes. This is every
morning for the man, pillowed in expensive sheets, the sun casting the first
hints of its rays through gauzy window drapes. So different than his own
mornings, with the blackout curtains blocking the sun's morning heralds, books
and other paper detritus littering the floor and every available surface.
It's nice, Ed decides. He wouldn't mind this.
The thought lightens him past his scratchy headache and the dull throbbing pain
of his ass, and he stares at the ceiling and imagines scenarios of a life with
Roy until the man comes back into the room with the musty party clothes in
hand.
They have just enough time to get dressed and have a cup of coffee before Havoc
and the company car pull up out front. If the man has words about the two of
them coming out of the Colonel's apartment complex together, he keeps them to
himself. His eyebrows still shoot up to be obscured by the fringe over his
forehead, though. Ed glowers at him when they make eye contact through the
rear-view mirror.
Roy’s morning interactions with the Lieutenant are clipped and professional,
and soon they pull away from the curb. The ride to headquarters remains in
silence.
Later, after deftly avoiding the rest of the team and making his way back to
his room to change, Ed contemplates his options. One, pretend this didn’t
happen. He doesn’t like that one. Things were already tense enough with the
Colonel before last night, adding another whopper of a circumstance on top of
it would make them both miserable. Two, they let it stay in the open, and
continued with whatever this was. Relationship? Does it count as a relationship
if you’ve kissed and had sex? Or did they just have a one-night stand? Ed won’t
accept that; he feels like shit even pondering it.
Three, this stays a secret between them. He likes that even less. The bastard
may be good at keeping his hand a secret, but Ed has always kept his heart on
his sleeve, cards face-up for anyone to look at.
Ultimately, this has to end in something other than a brush-off and a walk-
away. Ed’s going to hold the man by the balls if he has to, but he will not be
just another notch in the bedpost (as disappointingly metaphorical as those
notches may be). He will be taken seriously.
Pros AND cons of a potential relationship with Roy Mustang: the man is an
insufferably cocky bastard.
Mind made up, Ed stalks his way back to the office. His gloved hand hovers just
over the doorknob of the room when he hears the low thrum of voices inside,
argumentative and quick-flash. Curious, he pauses, pressing his ear to the
thick wood of the door.
“Everyone saw you leave last night with him, sir!” Female, and stern; the only
person could be Hawkeye.
“Leaving a party is innocent, Lieutenant—”
“Everyone.”
Even in argumentative mode, Roy’s voice sends a thrill down Ed’s spine. “And I
suppose they’re all assuming the worst?”
The worst, like fucking him is some kind of crime. Ed reminds himself it
technically was, and that sends an even bigger thrill through him. Underage and
subordinate… and Roy wants him so badly he’s willing to break the law for it.
“What do you think?”
“I think my personal business ought to stay my personal business.”
Just an exasperated sigh, but Ed knows Hawkeye well enough to imagine the look
of utter frustration that must accompany it. “Unfortunately we both know that’s
impossible. Can I trust you to wait until we see what kind of backlash this
causes before you go out and make things worse?”
Ed’s ear strains through the silence. He holds his breath and wills his heart
to beat quieter; he needs just as badly as Hawkeye does to know Roy’s answer.
“I don’t know,” comes the answer finally, a soft admission Ed might not have
caught if he hadn’t been listening so intently. “He makes me forget myself
sometimes. You know that.”
And suddenly it’s all too serious and Ed is more than ready to make his
entrance.
Which he does with all the usual bravado and lack of concern for the door or
the wall next to it.
“Got anything new for me today, Colonel?” he sneers, hands propped on his
leather-clad hips belligerently. Roy startles, eyes flicking to Ed’s lower half
before they find his face.
“Good morning, Fullmetal.” He manages to sound cool and collected, even despite
the sudden interruption.
Ed is surprised to note that Havoc and Fuery are both present as well, which
means they were privy to the conversation. He hopes it didn’t touch on more
personal subjects before he started eavesdropping; he’s not really sure what
he’d do if he knew the whole team was in on this relationship thing.
With the way they’re whispering to each other behind hands, like children, they
probably at least very heavily suspect something happened. Fuck.
“Well?” he presses. Roy sighs.
“I may have something, if you’ll give me just a moment to look through my
inbox. But we all know you have such littlepatience.”
“WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO LITTLE AND INEXPERIENCED IT TOOK LIKE THIRTY MINUTES OF
PREP BEFORE YOU COULD EVEN—” Ed cuts himself off, holding both his hands
heavily over his mouth. Fuck, fuck, FUCK,that had just come out of him. He’s
dead. He’s a dead man. Why did he say that? Why the fuck did he say that?
Ed feels like his face is boiling. Even Roy’s face is tinged with red, mouth
slack and eyes wide. His usual smarmy poker face is gone, kind of like Ed’s
control of his mouth.
Instead of doing the mature thing and laughing it off, he flees.
“E-Edward!” Roy yelps after him, but he’s out the door like a shot. He’s not
waiting around to see Hawkeye’s disapproving glare, or hear the stupid gossipy
titters from Havoc and Fuery.
He runs until there’s no more hallway, boots squealing as he skids around the
corner. He manages to get outside, just barely, when the tail of his coat is
snatched by agile hands and Roy’s terrible and perfect voice orders behind him
to stop.
Ed finds himself following it, though right now the only thing he wants is to
dig himself a hole to crawl in and die. He hasn’t gotten around to writing a
will and testament yet, but he figures Roy will do what it takes to see that
all his stuff goes to Al.
“I’m sorry,” Roy says to his back.
“For what?” He doesn’t turn around.
“It was a mistake.”
His heart shudders in his chest for a moment, blood turned freon.
“You told me you loved me,” he says low, dangerous, “was that a mistake too?”
Roy’s hand finds his shoulder. “Edward, no—”
Ed jerks out of his grasp and spins to snarl at him. “I’m done with your shit,
Mustang. I thought I could trust you, but apparently fucking not!”
He doesn’t wait for a response, flying the rest of the way down the stairs and
onto the courtyard. The cobblestones press at his feet, coal-tinged wind
whipping at his coat. Hot tracks run down his face but they’re equal parts
upset and angry.
“Edward!”
The fucking bastard is still chasing after him. Who the fuck does he think he
is? Ed thought he wanted to be with him – what a joke, what an utterly shit
joke. Why did he think he’d be any different to the man?
He’s vaguely aware of people staring at him, past the rippling blur of tears
he’s stubbornly refusing to let fall. Some of them escape anyway, burning down
his cheek. He swipes at them and keeps running.
“Edward, I didn’t mean… Loving you was never the mistake!”
Everything inside him hurts, tense and ugly as it wars with his need to run,
but he slows, and then stops, and turns. “What?”
Mustang catches up, breathing hard. “I do love you,” he pants. “That wasn’t
what I meant.”
They have an audience, officers halted in their errands and staring
unapologetically at the two of them. Edward crosses his arms, holding his
intestines in tight. “So?”
Mustang looks at him, open, pleading, and too genuine for Ed to feel
comfortable having this conversation in public. Apparently the Colonel feels
the same, because his voice is a low murmur meant only for Ed. “I… that was
your first kiss, Edward, I shouldn’t have taken that andyour virginity in the
same night.”
Ed snorts. “What the fuck ever.”
“I mean it. I feel like a dirty old man. That’s not how it was meant to go.”
“Maybe that’s because you are a dirty old man.” His squabbling insides are
settling, finding peace with each other that blooms warmth. “And it was my
decision too, asshole. I wouldn’t’ve let you fuck me if I didn’t want it.”
Mustang smiles a little, a wry curl that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I just want
what’s best for you, and I’m not convinced that’s me at the moment.”
“You shit!” Ed exclaims. “I get to decide what’s best for me, not you, and if I
want to be with your dumb ass that’s my decision! Stop treating me like a
fucking child!”
Mustang’s farce of a smile dissolves into something more real, and his eyes
close for a moment. “So this is a relationship, then?” His gaze flicks back
down to Ed, warm and fond. “I was under the impression you’d decide I was a
monster and book it in the opposite direction.”
Ed uncrosses his arms and shoves at the man roughly. “You know, everyone thinks
you’re smart and shit, but you’re a pretty big idiot under all that
intelligence.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment, jackass.”
“Coming from you, it might as well have been.”
The trip back inside is happier, though Ed can feel what seems like a million
eyes on their backs as they walk shoulder to shoulder across the courtyard and
up the steps. He hopes all this doesn’t cause problems for the man. There’s a
selfish knot inside him that is smug it took Roy yelling his affection across a
public yard, but a greater part of him, the guilty part, sits heavily against
his ribcage.
Roy’s fingers curl toward Ed’s, surprising him out of his thoughts. He can’t
rationalize why the man would want to hold his hand in headquarters of all
places, but he doesn’t push him away. Fingers entwined like affectionate
children, they draw looks from the others in the hallway, but nothing too
negative. A few officers even smile at the two of them, making Ed light up with
an irritated blush.
There’s no fanfare as Roy opens the door to the office.
“After you, Fullmetal,” he rumbles, and as Ed shuffles past the doorframe, he
receives a healthy swat to the ass. He squawks and scuttles in faster,
muttering insults and swears, but a fantastic hum rises up in his bones.
He’s not really sure what he got himself into, but the prospects are exciting.
Now, to get Roy back for smacking his butt… Ed thinks he knows just the thing.
The man’s not tooattached to his desk, is he?
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