Like Heroin
Fallen off the wagon of the weekend once again…this weekend, as with most weekends, that wagon was Colonel Roy Mustang.
Truly that man (and everything about him) was everything as well as an addiction. He was attractive, brilliant, and powerful (power that trailed behind him like Havoc's cloud of smoke). Even his trademarked obnoxious smirk added to his charm. All these irresistible traits culminated in a single hot, breathless, inescapable act. That single time, the single inescapable act (inescapable because each had wanted it so, yet had denied themselves for so long), was all it had taken to become utterly hooked. Once Ed had tasted that heroin, simply nothing else would do. Everything from the electric trails of the man's finger tips across Ed's skin, to the breathtaking kisses all over his body, to the maniacal rhythm inside him, seared into his soul and left permanent tracks in his brain's pleasure centers.
Nothing else would do. Indeed, nothing else ever could.
Ed had tried many times to escape his addiction, quit Roy Mustang once and for all, but every time he found it impossible. Every time he tried to end it, Roy knew exactly what buttons to push: a kiss here, a stroke there, exactly the magic spot to thrust to make Ed's mind go totally blank.
His own weakness infuriated him, every time trying to quit and every time ending up like so many addicts: having once more tasted his vice, he crumbled, unable to resist what his body learned he needed, and it made him feel dirty and low.
Ed was Roy's weakness, as well. The glaze that settled over the molten gold eyes as he lay writhing beneath him, the pinching of the automail leg as it wrapped around him, and that complete inability to put half his heart into any venture (especially the one in which they were engaged), were all as intoxicating as any liquor. The sounds issuing from his lover were mouth-watering, particularly so because he knew he had caused them, and only fed his need.
Ed's mouth going to work for other uses, nipping at his neck and down his chest, ending up performing what seemed to be its natural given purpose between Roy's legs, drove him insane; he could easily imagine that he'd stick his veins any number of times to inject this into his system if it were possible to do so. He could not so easily imagine a more beautiful picture than that wheat and honey hair, disheveled and tangled across a backdrop of golden skin and steel automail, dipping before him. That incredible look of concentration, as he employed his tongue in a way that convinced Roy it was his absolute favorite, was also stunning.
Any attempts to quit their drugs were utterly doomed to failure. Two addicts addicted to each other hardly stood any chance, for to help the other would be to quit their own obsessions, something neither was entirely sure he was able to do just yet. Each had secretly admitted to himself that he would never be ready.
What they hadn't admitted was that each was okay with that.
