Keeping Secrets
Title: Keeping Secrets
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: One sided Ed/Roy
Disclaimer: This is me, not owning FMA or the characters etc.
The rest of my fics are here.
It begins in a whisper, an innocent gesture as Roy says something to him. He cannot remember the words, only the rush of warm air against his ears that shivers its way down his spine to pool in his belly. It’s a sensation Edward is only peripherally familiar with, and he pulls his lip between his teeth, eyes wide and frantic as he tries to sort out what it means. Something flashes briefly in Roy’s expression, indecipherable and so faint Ed isn’t sure he hasn’t just imagined it. Perhaps it means nothing, but the memory of a look Ed isn’t sure was ever real is burned into the back of his mind.
It’s a feeling that lingers, festering in his gut like so much acid. It means nothing, of course. He has responsibilities, a brother to fix, a life to salvage. One day he’ll get Al’s body back and they’ll go home, reclaim the existence they abandoned so long ago. There’s nothing else for him but the anchor of his brother. Why is it then, in the purgatory between wakefulness and sleep, there are moment when his senses are flooded? A breath away from slumber, there’s hair beneath the tips of his fingers, shiny and dark like threads of black satin that flow between his knuckles. Sometimes, his eyes snap open, just to assure himself of the empty space on the bed beside him. Mostly, he relaxes into the bedding, drifting to sleep in the illusion of someone else’s steady heartbeat pattering against his skin.
He’s sure it’s hormones. It has to be hormones because he has plans, plans that have no room for a big headed general. So what if his skin looks like ivory and Ed can almost imagine how it would feel under his fingers? Denial is a burden that carries Ed to his knees, but he cannot shuck it, certainly not right here, in front of the man in question. He mutters something trite to hide the nerves that rattle him, but even as Roy takes the bait, he’s sure the man is laughing at him from behind those indecipherable midnight eyes.
Ed tries to forget. He shrouds himself in work and guilt to escape the infinitely worse truth that maybe the way his chest burns when he looks at Roy is more than a fluke. It’s another on the list of cannot haves, not while his brother is empty still and it’s his fault. His heart flounders anyway and his body taunts him with the possibilities.
It’s months later when he cracks. Summer is oppressively hot. Thunder rolls outside and the sheets of his bed cling to his skin with the muggy air. It’s too much and Ed’s hands skim his bare stomach, desperate to rid himself of the covers. The inadvertent scrape of fingertips across his belly pulls the breath from his lungs in a soft gasp.
Alone in his room, there doesn’t seem much harm in indulging in temptation. His mind is blessedly blank as automail fingers trace the hollows of his hips. The disconnect of sensation offers the illusion of someone else’s touch, perfect save for the lack of warmth.
If he closes his eyes, he can almost believe that the muggy, suffocating heat is the warmth of another body over his. His head tilts back against the pillows, inviting phantom kisses along the column of his throat. He can only conjure up the wet, velvet feel of lips over his hammering pulse, and make believe the slow slide of a human hand across his stomach is not his own.
He loses himself to the sweeping motion of straying fingers along the length of his body. The sheets shift beneath him as he squirms at the touch of automail across the heated expanse of his skin. It would be simple if the figure that pulls itself together behind his closed eyes was soft, all gentle curves and full lips, but Edward is as complicated in this as he is in all things. He’s haunted by dark, fathomless eyes, and a desperate sort of curiosity as to what it would feel like to trade steel for ignition cloth.
He shouldn’t be doing this. It feels illicit, conjuring up touches that aren’t his to take. The guilt threatens, even as his hand strays, tracing a trail of blond curls steadily downward. His conscience has always picked strange battles like that.
And still he ignores it, silencing the litany shouting in the back of his mind with warm fingers curling around his cock. A low whimper bleeds off his lip, pleading with a nonexistent partner who teases him with evanescent touches, lips and teeth and practiced fingers that will never be his to feel.
The first stroke of his hand along the length of his cock and Ed’s lips are already parted on a low, needy moan. He fancies himself restrained by the harsh press of hands curled around his hips, pinned by the weight of another’s gaze. He loses himself in the slow, teasing rhythm of his own fingers, his mind muddied by a desperate sort of want. In the roll of thunder through the open window, Roy whispers filthy things in his ear.
He wonders if this is what it would be like, rough and wicked. His legs part in silent request, and if Roy were here, he’d be settled between them, knees nudging at the insides of Ed’s thighs. He stills under the made up press of teeth to the junction of his neck and shoulder, beneath the slow, insubstantial caress of heavy air against his skin.
If he just closes his eyes tightly enough, it will be reality, if only for a moment. The sticky summer heat dissolves into wet, burning kisses that trail down his front. The bedding is half balled up beneath him and he fists his fingers in it, pulling almost violently at the rumpled cotton sheets.
Thunder crashes more insistently, doing nothing to cool the air around him. It does little to muffle sharp pleading curses, or the way he’s begging an empty room for awful, perfect things. His hips roll up into the tunnel of his fingers, and in the moment he can almost convince himself that if he opens his eyes, it’ll be warm lips and a slick tongue sliding along his length.
Ed pulls his lip between his teeth, his breath rasping harshly with the quickened pace of his hand. His back arches off sweat matted sheets, and he wants so desperately he can’t find the words. It’s appalling, the way it doesn’t even matter if there’s a stiff blue uniform in the way, not when he only wants to be had completely, broken down to his most basic parts.
It’s over too quickly. There’s no one to hear the way he cries out, yes yes oh fuck yes, or the condemning name that falls off his lips like it belongs there. His palm pistons around his cock, and the shiver that begins at his furthest extremities rushes down his spine until he’s shuddering out his release. Distantly, he knows that making a mess across his own belly is exactly nothing like what he wants, coming hot and sticky against the back of Roy’s throat.
He’s left ragged, gasping for air as he tries to fill his complaining lungs. He shivers in sated exhaustion, leaving the wreckage of bedding the way it is as he slumps against the mattress. Already, it’s a struggle to fight off the shame that threatens with all its silent reproach. Only sleep offers the escape he’s desperate for.
Tomorrow he will stand in Mustang’s office, with only the desk between them. Tomorrow he will frantically hide his shame, praying not to be seen through as surely as glass. Tonight, however, there are only dreams of a bed that isn’t so damnably empty, In the brief moments between sated wakefulness and slumber, he lets himself be lulled by something soft and sweet whispered in the heavy rush of the rain.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: One sided Ed/Roy
Disclaimer: This is me, not owning FMA or the characters etc.
The rest of my fics are here.
It begins in a whisper, an innocent gesture as Roy says something to him. He cannot remember the words, only the rush of warm air against his ears that shivers its way down his spine to pool in his belly. It’s a sensation Edward is only peripherally familiar with, and he pulls his lip between his teeth, eyes wide and frantic as he tries to sort out what it means. Something flashes briefly in Roy’s expression, indecipherable and so faint Ed isn’t sure he hasn’t just imagined it. Perhaps it means nothing, but the memory of a look Ed isn’t sure was ever real is burned into the back of his mind.
It’s a feeling that lingers, festering in his gut like so much acid. It means nothing, of course. He has responsibilities, a brother to fix, a life to salvage. One day he’ll get Al’s body back and they’ll go home, reclaim the existence they abandoned so long ago. There’s nothing else for him but the anchor of his brother. Why is it then, in the purgatory between wakefulness and sleep, there are moment when his senses are flooded? A breath away from slumber, there’s hair beneath the tips of his fingers, shiny and dark like threads of black satin that flow between his knuckles. Sometimes, his eyes snap open, just to assure himself of the empty space on the bed beside him. Mostly, he relaxes into the bedding, drifting to sleep in the illusion of someone else’s steady heartbeat pattering against his skin.
He’s sure it’s hormones. It has to be hormones because he has plans, plans that have no room for a big headed general. So what if his skin looks like ivory and Ed can almost imagine how it would feel under his fingers? Denial is a burden that carries Ed to his knees, but he cannot shuck it, certainly not right here, in front of the man in question. He mutters something trite to hide the nerves that rattle him, but even as Roy takes the bait, he’s sure the man is laughing at him from behind those indecipherable midnight eyes.
Ed tries to forget. He shrouds himself in work and guilt to escape the infinitely worse truth that maybe the way his chest burns when he looks at Roy is more than a fluke. It’s another on the list of cannot haves, not while his brother is empty still and it’s his fault. His heart flounders anyway and his body taunts him with the possibilities.
It’s months later when he cracks. Summer is oppressively hot. Thunder rolls outside and the sheets of his bed cling to his skin with the muggy air. It’s too much and Ed’s hands skim his bare stomach, desperate to rid himself of the covers. The inadvertent scrape of fingertips across his belly pulls the breath from his lungs in a soft gasp.
Alone in his room, there doesn’t seem much harm in indulging in temptation. His mind is blessedly blank as automail fingers trace the hollows of his hips. The disconnect of sensation offers the illusion of someone else’s touch, perfect save for the lack of warmth.
If he closes his eyes, he can almost believe that the muggy, suffocating heat is the warmth of another body over his. His head tilts back against the pillows, inviting phantom kisses along the column of his throat. He can only conjure up the wet, velvet feel of lips over his hammering pulse, and make believe the slow slide of a human hand across his stomach is not his own.
He loses himself to the sweeping motion of straying fingers along the length of his body. The sheets shift beneath him as he squirms at the touch of automail across the heated expanse of his skin. It would be simple if the figure that pulls itself together behind his closed eyes was soft, all gentle curves and full lips, but Edward is as complicated in this as he is in all things. He’s haunted by dark, fathomless eyes, and a desperate sort of curiosity as to what it would feel like to trade steel for ignition cloth.
He shouldn’t be doing this. It feels illicit, conjuring up touches that aren’t his to take. The guilt threatens, even as his hand strays, tracing a trail of blond curls steadily downward. His conscience has always picked strange battles like that.
And still he ignores it, silencing the litany shouting in the back of his mind with warm fingers curling around his cock. A low whimper bleeds off his lip, pleading with a nonexistent partner who teases him with evanescent touches, lips and teeth and practiced fingers that will never be his to feel.
The first stroke of his hand along the length of his cock and Ed’s lips are already parted on a low, needy moan. He fancies himself restrained by the harsh press of hands curled around his hips, pinned by the weight of another’s gaze. He loses himself in the slow, teasing rhythm of his own fingers, his mind muddied by a desperate sort of want. In the roll of thunder through the open window, Roy whispers filthy things in his ear.
He wonders if this is what it would be like, rough and wicked. His legs part in silent request, and if Roy were here, he’d be settled between them, knees nudging at the insides of Ed’s thighs. He stills under the made up press of teeth to the junction of his neck and shoulder, beneath the slow, insubstantial caress of heavy air against his skin.
If he just closes his eyes tightly enough, it will be reality, if only for a moment. The sticky summer heat dissolves into wet, burning kisses that trail down his front. The bedding is half balled up beneath him and he fists his fingers in it, pulling almost violently at the rumpled cotton sheets.
Thunder crashes more insistently, doing nothing to cool the air around him. It does little to muffle sharp pleading curses, or the way he’s begging an empty room for awful, perfect things. His hips roll up into the tunnel of his fingers, and in the moment he can almost convince himself that if he opens his eyes, it’ll be warm lips and a slick tongue sliding along his length.
Ed pulls his lip between his teeth, his breath rasping harshly with the quickened pace of his hand. His back arches off sweat matted sheets, and he wants so desperately he can’t find the words. It’s appalling, the way it doesn’t even matter if there’s a stiff blue uniform in the way, not when he only wants to be had completely, broken down to his most basic parts.
It’s over too quickly. There’s no one to hear the way he cries out, yes yes oh fuck yes, or the condemning name that falls off his lips like it belongs there. His palm pistons around his cock, and the shiver that begins at his furthest extremities rushes down his spine until he’s shuddering out his release. Distantly, he knows that making a mess across his own belly is exactly nothing like what he wants, coming hot and sticky against the back of Roy’s throat.
He’s left ragged, gasping for air as he tries to fill his complaining lungs. He shivers in sated exhaustion, leaving the wreckage of bedding the way it is as he slumps against the mattress. Already, it’s a struggle to fight off the shame that threatens with all its silent reproach. Only sleep offers the escape he’s desperate for.
Tomorrow he will stand in Mustang’s office, with only the desk between them. Tomorrow he will frantically hide his shame, praying not to be seen through as surely as glass. Tonight, however, there are only dreams of a bed that isn’t so damnably empty, In the brief moments between sated wakefulness and slumber, he lets himself be lulled by something soft and sweet whispered in the heavy rush of the rain.