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Entry tags:
daily writing (FMA)
Roy/*cough* fuckupedness. Post episode 25. NC-17. 950 words.
When Maes shows up on Roy's doorstep, Roy gapes at him, mouth open like a fish.
"Hello, Roy," says Maes, glasses glinting. "Miss me?"
"Dreaming," Roy mutters.
"Not dreaming," Maes answers, reaching out to touch Roy's face.
Roy takes a step back, catching Maes's wrist. It proves the point anyway: Maes is real enough to touch. "Who raised you?" Roy asks. "I wanted to--I would have--I'm sorry it wasn't me. I'm sorry," and unexpectly, he hiccups a sob in the middle of this.
"Doesn't matter," says Maes, oozing in, sharing the doorway. "I'm here now."
"Fuck," Roy says to Maes's throat. He's still holding Maes's wrist, clutching it almost, between their bodies, and Maes's other arm is firm around his shoulders, holding him close.
"Yeah," says Maes. "You wanna?"
Roy starts laughing at this, hysterical grief, shuddering against his Maes's chest, and Maes shoves into the flat and kicks the door shut behind them. Maes pushes him against the wall, both hands on his neck, his jaw, and kisses him. Roy's not laughing now--shaking, not laughing. Maes doesn't have to coax to get Roy to kiss him back, Roy is already kissing him back, desperately, barely breathing in his focus.
When Maes pulls back a few inches, Roy says, "Yes, yes, I want to." Maes laughs, because he's already unbuckling bits of Roy's uniform.
"I have a bed," says Roy, as he loses his pants.
"Here's good," Maes says, pinning him against the wall again, weight against his hips, nuzzle at his neck.
"The bed's better," says Roy, pushing back. He's almost surprised when Maes gives.
In the bed, they fuck, Roy on his back, legs in the air, Maes between them, inside him, bent over him. Roy lets him get in, get comfortable, get going, before he says, "Is this how you killed him, wearing the face of someone he loved?"
Roy brings Maes to a halt with the question, deep, Roy's legs straining. Maes says, breathless, surprised, amused, "When did you know?"
Roy traces the tattoo on Maes's thigh. He can barely see it from this angle but he knows it's there. "When you kissed me," he says. "That was a tactical move, not a sentimental one. Maes would have gone home to his wife. You came to me to find out what I know--what he told me."
"And you let me fuck you," Maes says. "Your lover's killer." It pleases him.
"Are you going to kill me, now?" Roy asks. He is not afraid.
Maes studies him, lips parted. "You'd like that," he decides. Strokes Roy's hair, bends Roy damn near in half to kiss him on the forehead. "It'll wait," Maes whispers, leaning over him. Roy shudders, turns his head, but he doesn't try to escape.
After a moment, Maes straightens his back, pulls up enough for leverage, to thrust, to fuck. It takes Roy a moment to make himself look up and watch, but he does, watches his face, his shoulders, the ripples in his stomach, and shouldn't there be a scar there, at least, to mark the bullet that killed him?
"Whose face were you wearing?" Roy asks, and it's enough to make Maes stop again, look at him, head tilted.
"You want to hear it's you," Maes tells him. "You want me to say it was your face that made him hesitate, your heart he couldn't put a knife in. You'd hate yourself for it, to think you were the weakness that got him killed, but you still want it to be true, want to be wanted that way." Maes grins at him, leaning low. "It wasn't. It was her."
Leaning just low enough for Roy to grab him by the arms, by the hair. "Don't you ever," he says, "don't you do this to her, don't you touch her--never go near her, do you hear me?"
"I hear you," Maes says, in a way that sounds like a threat.
Roy's got his legs locked around Maes's waist, his arms around his neck. "Not for her," he says, maybe too late, but maybe it's salvageable. "This is pure selfishness. She had him all these years but you, you're mine."
"Whatever you say, Roy," says Maes, flippant, casually cruel.
"Say it," says Roy, flexing his body.
Maes groans.
"Say you're mine," Roy insists.
"Fuck you," says Maes, his fingers clawing at Roy's hips, pulling out a bare inch, thrusting back.
Roy gets his legs that extra inch tighter, and says, "Mine."
Maes's eyes, purple through his glasses, look wild. "Yours," he says.
Roy believes him. Some words have power.
Roy loosens up his grip, and lets Maes fuck him until he comes, and collapses on top of Roy, gasping weight pinning him flat.
"Mine," Roy repeats, fingers in Maes's hair, teasing out that one long strand from the center of his forehead.
Maes stays.
In the morning, Roy makes breakfast on the stove. He says, getting his ingredients out, "Do you eat?"
Maes says, "Why wouldn't I?"
Roy says, "Because you're not human."
There is a silence, and when Maes speaks, he sounds angry. He sounds dangerous. He is right behind Roy, speaking into his neck, but not touching. He says, "I eat."
Roy nods and answers, "I hope you like oatmeal."
And then there is touch, Maes's arms wrapped around Roy's middle, scruffy-faced kiss to his shoulder.
Mine, thinks Roy, thinks it is like owning a lion, and wonders how much his this thing can be, that Roy didn't raise, that isn't even who it looks like, that is waiting for the moment to kill him, when it's decided he's no longer enough of a plaything.
But everything wants to be wanted--it told him itself, when he asked it what face it was wearing that night, and it told him why he was asking. And Roy doesn't have to try that hard to want it, when it's wearing this face.
It makes a very pretty Maes.
When Maes shows up on Roy's doorstep, Roy gapes at him, mouth open like a fish.
"Hello, Roy," says Maes, glasses glinting. "Miss me?"
"Dreaming," Roy mutters.
"Not dreaming," Maes answers, reaching out to touch Roy's face.
Roy takes a step back, catching Maes's wrist. It proves the point anyway: Maes is real enough to touch. "Who raised you?" Roy asks. "I wanted to--I would have--I'm sorry it wasn't me. I'm sorry," and unexpectly, he hiccups a sob in the middle of this.
"Doesn't matter," says Maes, oozing in, sharing the doorway. "I'm here now."
"Fuck," Roy says to Maes's throat. He's still holding Maes's wrist, clutching it almost, between their bodies, and Maes's other arm is firm around his shoulders, holding him close.
"Yeah," says Maes. "You wanna?"
Roy starts laughing at this, hysterical grief, shuddering against his Maes's chest, and Maes shoves into the flat and kicks the door shut behind them. Maes pushes him against the wall, both hands on his neck, his jaw, and kisses him. Roy's not laughing now--shaking, not laughing. Maes doesn't have to coax to get Roy to kiss him back, Roy is already kissing him back, desperately, barely breathing in his focus.
When Maes pulls back a few inches, Roy says, "Yes, yes, I want to." Maes laughs, because he's already unbuckling bits of Roy's uniform.
"I have a bed," says Roy, as he loses his pants.
"Here's good," Maes says, pinning him against the wall again, weight against his hips, nuzzle at his neck.
"The bed's better," says Roy, pushing back. He's almost surprised when Maes gives.
In the bed, they fuck, Roy on his back, legs in the air, Maes between them, inside him, bent over him. Roy lets him get in, get comfortable, get going, before he says, "Is this how you killed him, wearing the face of someone he loved?"
Roy brings Maes to a halt with the question, deep, Roy's legs straining. Maes says, breathless, surprised, amused, "When did you know?"
Roy traces the tattoo on Maes's thigh. He can barely see it from this angle but he knows it's there. "When you kissed me," he says. "That was a tactical move, not a sentimental one. Maes would have gone home to his wife. You came to me to find out what I know--what he told me."
"And you let me fuck you," Maes says. "Your lover's killer." It pleases him.
"Are you going to kill me, now?" Roy asks. He is not afraid.
Maes studies him, lips parted. "You'd like that," he decides. Strokes Roy's hair, bends Roy damn near in half to kiss him on the forehead. "It'll wait," Maes whispers, leaning over him. Roy shudders, turns his head, but he doesn't try to escape.
After a moment, Maes straightens his back, pulls up enough for leverage, to thrust, to fuck. It takes Roy a moment to make himself look up and watch, but he does, watches his face, his shoulders, the ripples in his stomach, and shouldn't there be a scar there, at least, to mark the bullet that killed him?
"Whose face were you wearing?" Roy asks, and it's enough to make Maes stop again, look at him, head tilted.
"You want to hear it's you," Maes tells him. "You want me to say it was your face that made him hesitate, your heart he couldn't put a knife in. You'd hate yourself for it, to think you were the weakness that got him killed, but you still want it to be true, want to be wanted that way." Maes grins at him, leaning low. "It wasn't. It was her."
Leaning just low enough for Roy to grab him by the arms, by the hair. "Don't you ever," he says, "don't you do this to her, don't you touch her--never go near her, do you hear me?"
"I hear you," Maes says, in a way that sounds like a threat.
Roy's got his legs locked around Maes's waist, his arms around his neck. "Not for her," he says, maybe too late, but maybe it's salvageable. "This is pure selfishness. She had him all these years but you, you're mine."
"Whatever you say, Roy," says Maes, flippant, casually cruel.
"Say it," says Roy, flexing his body.
Maes groans.
"Say you're mine," Roy insists.
"Fuck you," says Maes, his fingers clawing at Roy's hips, pulling out a bare inch, thrusting back.
Roy gets his legs that extra inch tighter, and says, "Mine."
Maes's eyes, purple through his glasses, look wild. "Yours," he says.
Roy believes him. Some words have power.
Roy loosens up his grip, and lets Maes fuck him until he comes, and collapses on top of Roy, gasping weight pinning him flat.
"Mine," Roy repeats, fingers in Maes's hair, teasing out that one long strand from the center of his forehead.
Maes stays.
In the morning, Roy makes breakfast on the stove. He says, getting his ingredients out, "Do you eat?"
Maes says, "Why wouldn't I?"
Roy says, "Because you're not human."
There is a silence, and when Maes speaks, he sounds angry. He sounds dangerous. He is right behind Roy, speaking into his neck, but not touching. He says, "I eat."
Roy nods and answers, "I hope you like oatmeal."
And then there is touch, Maes's arms wrapped around Roy's middle, scruffy-faced kiss to his shoulder.
Mine, thinks Roy, thinks it is like owning a lion, and wonders how much his this thing can be, that Roy didn't raise, that isn't even who it looks like, that is waiting for the moment to kill him, when it's decided he's no longer enough of a plaything.
But everything wants to be wanted--it told him itself, when he asked it what face it was wearing that night, and it told him why he was asking. And Roy doesn't have to try that hard to want it, when it's wearing this face.
It makes a very pretty Maes.
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