Rachel (inugrlrayn) wrote,

In Ruins

Title: In Ruins
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: 100moods #97 Uncomfortable
Pairing: One sided Ed/Roy
Disclaimer: This is me, not owning FMA or the characters etc.
Summary: I should have just made this one multipart fic instead of separate oneshots, but the plot sort of crept up on me. There's more to the story, but most of them can be taken separately too.
Keeping Secrets (part 1)
Dreaming in Color (part 2)

The rest of my fics are here.

The library seems like a good idea, a sanctuary from his own insanity. He’d been so good, he’d fought it off all the way up until last night. Clearly the heat that’s cloying even amidst shelves of books has driven him mad because now he can’t stop. He wants he wants he wants, and his mind will hear nothing else but the soft rumble of a voice he hasn’t any right to think about.

He tries, desperately, to immerse himself in a nameless book, anything to get his mind back to useful things. His arm still burns with a phantom touch, and something in his belly flops, creeping further downward until he’s squirming in his seat. He knows how Roy’s hand on his skin feels now, firm and indecipherably hot. It’s almost too much to ask that he not go back and demand all the rest, because how dare he leave Ed with this one, distracting place and not sear the rest of his body to match it?

The words are swimming before his eyes, and thank heavens Al is nowhere to be seen because he doesn’t even know what he’s meant to be reading. His body refuses to be still, want prodding its way in a shiver down his spine. He wishes he could beat his thoughts into submission, but the only thing his mind seems to care for is back at headquarters.

The third time he reads the same page, Ed tosses the book aside in frustration. It’s ridiculous and illogical, and something he knows he can’t have. Why is it then that his body is so intent, straining for fingers and lips he has no right to?

He pushes back from the table where he’s reading, chair squealing as it scrapes across the floor. Ignoring the sour look he garners from one of the librarians, Ed stalks to the restroom, desperate to get a grip on this stupidity that seems to have overcome him. He stifles the urge to kick the wall, if only just barely.

Stupid stupid stupid. It’s a bitter litany that hisses in his ears as he shoves the restroom door open. Of all the people he could possible want, it just had to be the most embarrassing one. He growls in frustration, scowling bitterly at the way it echoes against porcelain and marble.

Water runs in the sink, loud but not enough to drown his thoughts. It splashes, icy across his face, dripping from his chin as he looks up into the mirror. There are still shadows, dark smudges, stark beneath the brilliant gold of his eyes. Ed is hopeless, and if Roy doesn’t know already… and for heaven’s sake, he really has lost it if that bastard has relegated himself to first name basis even in his private thoughts.

Maybe if he just found someone else to ease the sharp, keening want that… but he can’t finish the thought. It feels like poison in his mouth, eating away at him before he even lets the idea breathe. If only that was what this was about, he could settle for a shadow perhaps, but he couldn’t use someone that way, and despite the way he shivers and shakes and needs, it’s more than bare skin and warm lips that pull at him.

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? It’s not bad enough that he wants Roy’s body, the salt in the wound is the way he wants more, craves affection he has no right to wish for. Sometimes, the thing he wants most is not to be so alone.

Automail knuckles connect with the counter with a resounding thwack, a brutish reminder that he can’t have this, shouldn’t want this. His brother is still an empty shell and how is he meant to sleep at night letting himself want this thing Al can never have so long as he keeps wretchedly failing? His human hand scrubs roughly over his face as he tries to piece together a plan, something to numb this horrendous, encompassing need.

Perhaps he can’t solve the problem of his stupid, aching heart, but if he could rein in his body, he can at least accomplish something once in a while. As if in response to the thought, the memory of Roy’s hand on him flares up, impervious to the aggravated groan that seeps from his lips. His flesh seems to take it and run, warmth that has nothing to do with the heat outside staging a coup on his better judgment.

This can’t be happening, not here. It’s the damn library, and there’s nothing like privacy to take care of a problem like this. He can’t go out there like this, not with his pants uncomfortably tight, every step stiff and almost painful. Someday, someday he will find a way to make Roy pay for this, for the way he makes every part of Ed so stupidly out of control.

Think about something else, he commands himself, and he tries, he tries so hard. Every thought only ricochets back to Roy, and the fingers curled so tightly around the counter ache to know what it would feel like to be curled around the supple flesh of Roy’s hips instead. Cursing, he doesn’t dare look in the mirror any longer, for terror of what he might find.

The restroom is empty, a small blessing amidst his perpetual misery. Flushed with shame despite having no witnesses, he creeps to a bathroom stall, almost violently yanking his pants down to his thighs. It’s humiliating, being reduced to this, where anyone could find him, but it’s the faintest bit better than staying in here until close and bolting for the steps hoping no one notices the obvious signs.

For a moment he just glares at his cock, bobbing eagerly the moment it’s released from the confines of his clothes. This is ridiculous, and he hates his body for being such a jerk that it won’t just let him read a book in peace. He’s reluctant and angry, even as his fingers curl perfunctorily around his length.

A low, needy hiss presses through his teeth, and that poses a problem. There’s no privacy here, and he cannot stomach the idea of having to explain why he was doing this to the librarian who’s already grumpy today. Thinking for a moment, he yanks one of his gloves from his pocket, staring blankly at it before shoving it between his lips.

The fabric is rough against his tongue and if he closes his eyes, he can imagine the glove is etched in red. He’s already helpless, forgetting from the moment his palm connects with his cock again that this was just meant to get it out of the way. His body hums, a heady mix of pleasure and need, his mind substituting the memory of Roy’s touch for the reality of his own.

It’s good. It’s perfect. It’s utter agony, each slide of his fingers drawing him further from coherence. His back arches, his body sliding into a more comfortable position, jaw clamped tight around the glove to muffle the way every touch tries to dredge up a desperate howl from his throat. His head tips back, eyes wide and desperate, hair tumbling down his spine.

The world is reduced to this, metal walls that hide his sin from the world, and low, whining sounds he does his best to clamp down on as his thumb works over the head of his cock. It shouldn’t be so good. He’s shivering already though, his body straining as he tunnels his hand and rolls his hips forward.

He wants it to never stop. Ed would revel forever in the imaginary caress of Roy’s fingers on his skin. He whines despite the makeshift gag, allowing himself for the briefest moment to pretend Roy’s lips have taken the place of his own hand. His very coherence is dismantled to his most basic desires, and the idea of Roy staring up at him, dark eyes clouded with want, is enough to make Ed teeter on the edge already.

Each sweep of his hand over his length drags him closer, toes curling in anticipation. Distantly, he can hear the rattle of the porcelain that holds him up with each shiver of his body, but he can’t bring himself to care any longer. His entire focus is on the promise of losing his balance, sending him careening into pleasant oblivion.

He comes hard, the fabric in his mouth not enough to stifle the keening wail that slips between his lips. Golden eyes squeeze shut as warm liquid spills over his hand, dripping down his knuckles to the floor between his feet. Ed sags to the side against the metal wall, no longer listening to any sign of intrusion.

His body thrums with sated pleasure, and he’s entirely certain it will be a little while before his wobbly legs will carry him back to his table. It’s with cautious hope that he lets himself think about Roy, even for a moment, but while the ache in his heart remains, his body seems satisfied for the moment at least. It’s hardly a perfect solution, and there’s no telling how long he can sustain it, but it’s the only thing he has.

It feels like hours before he drags himself from the stall, hastily washing his hands. He shoves the glove back in his pocket, trying not to think about what he’s done with it. Thankfully, the librarian doesn’t so much as glance up as he makes his way back to his seat.

It’s going to hurt. He knows, much as he tries to deny it. His heart is hopelessly entangled, caught up before he ever realized it was in danger. It’s going to be agony, but he’s determined to make this cobbled together solution work.

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