I think this is the first time I've written lime. Oo I mean, wow. Years of fan fictions and I've never written lime. Beta-work by Sockren.
Roy/Ed, lime, angst.
Replacing
by Maaya
Sometimes, Edward feels like he's stumbled upon something too big for him and that he ought to go back to where he started, and when he is back at the beginning, that he should take another road. Use another ticket than the one he did. Or at least that he had used a round-trip one right from the start.
He wants to go home, until he realizes he doesn't have one anymore. And then, he's lost.
In these moments, he feels like a child, even younger than his fifteen winters, and it reminds him too much of when his mom died; it is hard, so hard to breathe with that persistent lump in his throat. Without air, his eyes water and he blinks feverishly, just to be able to clearly see the page he's reading. He yawns for oxygen and announces to whoever might be in his company, let it be Alphonse or Mustang or someone else, that he didn't sleep much last night, maybe he should go and rest some now.
Edward sometimes tells Mustang that he hates him, hates that he gave him the alternative to become a National Alchemist, it brought him nothing but trouble, but the words don't quite sound as accusing as he tells himself they should. Mustang looks at him pityingly (Edward hates pity) and says something sarcastic or playful depending on his mood, and whatever he might say immediately turns Edward's fright to anger. White-hot, flushed, burning anger and he forgets to be lost and miserable. All he sees is Mustang's smirk or self-assured, self-righteous smile that Edward longs to beat off his face. In his mind's eye, he can see it, one precise hit with hard as steel automail and the blood would gush and Mustang would never, ever be able to smile like that to him again.
Edward hates Mustang even more for making Edward hate him. The fact it doesn't make sense frustrates him further.
The kisses he forces upon smirking lips are aggressive and torn between hate and something...almost opposite and the odium intensifies because he can't choose which passion; it's Mustang's fault.
When Mustang's mouth is abandoned for the throat and neck and everything that might be interesting further down, the man starts talking, voice annoyingly sultry. It earns him a bite which is harder than necessary; it causes a slight, satisfying flinch.
"Feeling of extreme dislike..." Mustang says and stops when his nipple is abused. "...hatred demands action."
Edward doesn't understand what that has got to do with anything and mumbles something rude. He likes to have the man writhing, not much else matters at the moment.
"Hate opposes love," Mustang continues and now Edward catches on. His black shirt is lost, a tear at a seam that he will force Mustang to fix later. His movements falter a couple of seconds when Mustang touches his back with confident hands, much smoother than Edward's own forceful approach. 'Why smooth?' Edward wonders. He doesn't want soft, he wants Mustang to give back exactly what he gets.
"For in a wink the false love turns to hate," he retorts surly, trying not to feel pleasure when Mustang's face shows recognition.
"Ah," the older man says, seemingly not bothered at all at the words' meaning. At least, Edward doesn't think he's bothered, because the hands continue, lower. "Tennyson."
They don't talk more until they're both done, lying on their backs beside each other. It is hard to concentrate but the afterglow is soon past and Edward is able to form sentences again.
"I hate you," Edward says and he doesn't remember anymore, what he felt before his anger.
End