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Porcelain Men

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He bites his lip to keep from speaking, but grunts with each thrust. The involuntary noises push out of his lips as his hips bruise against the Colonel's desk.

This isn't new territory.

Since their first stolen night together—an angry fuck over the back of the couch—Ed has been struggling to keep quiet. He doesn't normally do quiet, but yelling at Mustang tends to be counter-productive.

They have their excuses: missions gone wrong, a particularly rough night, a stray memory that shatters one of them like fragile glass; that's all it takes—the horrors of their lives.

The first time was over that mess in Liore. Mustang's blank face barely registered Ed's railing until he was pushing Ed up against the wall, taking his mouth and just making Ed shut up. It should have been weird, Ed should have pushed Mustang away, but there was something inside him that just needed to get out and if that was the way the Colonel would listen. . . . He latched on, plunging into an action he'd never really considered, giving more than he took. But when had Ed ever done things half-assed?

They wound up on the couch that night, pants around their ankles, the Colonel's dick up Ed's ass breaking him open until he cried out. Mustang had been silent the entire time, breathing quietly in Ed's ear. Ed whimpered when he came and glared in defiance when he finally turned and met Mustang's smug eyes. He'd never made a sound again, but after all the times, the desire to make a noise—to say something—was just getting worse.

Mustang changes his angle, thrusting up, and Ed can't suppress the gasp, the half-word growl that will never be a name. The kiss on his shoulder is gentle, the Colonel's lips warm on his sweat-chilled skin. Ed slides his eyes closed, imagining the emotion that should couple with something so tender.

He'd shown up at the Colonel's office—this time not because he'd been affected by a bad mission, by blood that was on his hands, by guilt—using an excuse and he'd pushed up against Mustang before the door was fully shut. They didn't speak, Ed just pushed until Mustang took over, stripping off layers, laying him bare until the only thing remaining was the thin veneer that shielded his true emotions.

The Colonel's hand slides under his hip, lifting until an arm presses against his chest, pulling him off the desk and up against Mustang's body. Ed has grown quite a bit in the last few years, but is still on his toes, precariously balanced in Mustang's grip. Lips trace up his neck, a hand turns his face, and Mustang steals an awkward kiss, twisting over Ed's auto-mail shoulder to claim the lips Ed has already surrendered. The Colonel's tongue digs in at the edge of Ed's mouth, like he is savoring something particularly delicious. He presses a hard, closed-mouth kiss to Ed's cheek, thrusting once, hard.

Warm breath in Ed's ear tickles down his spine. "I'm going to pull out," Mustang whispers. "I want you to face me."

Ed nods, the tie from his braid scratching the nape of his neck.

Mustang holds Ed's hips as he carefully pulls away, turning Ed in his arms, almost an embrace.

"We haven't ever," Ed begins, but Mustang's lips seal over his mouth, swallowing the obvious thought Ed has voiced.

Still kissing, Mustang helps Ed on to the desk, stepping between spread legs, probably a more familiar position given all the women he's fucked. He eases back in, pushing gently against Ed's loosened muscles.

He carefully brings Ed up right, right at the edge of the desk, their brows pressing together. Mustang thrusts into him, setting a languid pace with the snap of his hips, a sharp thrust with a slow slide out that immediately has Ed on the edge of orgasm. They share breath between kisses, the air going stale between their mouths.

Mustang keeps his eyes carefully downcast, but Ed can't stop staring at his face, the perfect porcelain mask the Colonel wears. He wears the emotionless expression of a doll, a face crafted to convey nothing. Ed licks his lips, the motion catching Mustang's eye, and when his gaze flicks up, the porcelain shatters.


He says it so simply, so easily, like they are sitting across from each other at dinner and he's just asked for the salt. Like saying it is as easy as asking for salt.

Staring into his eyes, Ed tenses as Mustang fucks him, hard and fast, filling Ed with heat until he's squirming, struggling to maintain eye contact because he just wants to shut his eyes, let his body go, and scream.

His feet lock behind Mustang's back, pulling him closer, forcing shorter strokes that quickly grow in speed. Their foreheads part, but Mustang is panting, still staring at Ed, still saying his name with that look. Ed closes his eyes against it because it's too much, too close, and he feels his body spiraling out of control, the nerves firing up his limbs as his fingers clench, arms wrap around Mustang's neck and shoulders, grabbing, clawing, trying desperately to hold on to something he knows is hard and real. He can't give into his imagination because no matter what the Colonel's eyes are saying now, they won't keep saying it when they're done. They just won't.

"Ed," Mustang gasps, squeezing his eyes shut.

He pumps through his own orgasm, keeping the pressure for Ed, carrying through the final thrusts until Ed curls up, grunting, trained to keep his cry to himself.

With Mustang bent over, Ed disengages his arms, flopping back on the wood and ink blotter, not giving a damn that some file is now sticking uncomfortably to his shoulder. Mustang curls over Ed's chest, probably just high enough to avoid the spatters of come. Auto-mail fingers pass through Mustang's dark hair, spiking up the ends and then smoothing them down. Fingers curl at Ed's side, almost like stroking, and with a shock Ed realizes that even hanging off the desk as they are, they are cuddling, like they are . . . a couple.

"Hmm," Mustang sighs appreciatively, nuzzling into Ed's stomach.

"Feel good?" Ed hedges, continuing to stroke Mustang's hair in the same way, careful to not change speed or pressure.

A hand smooths down Ed's side and lips press against his belly, as good as any voiced "yes."

Ed doesn't want to move, but the pressure on his back is building uncomfortably and gravity is about to slip Mustang from his body anyway, so he carefully prods, shifting Mustang until he takes the hint, extracting himself from Ed with care. He grabs two towels from Ed's bag—of course he came prepared—and tosses one to Ed, absently cleaning off his dick on one end and mopping his face and chest with the other.

Ed throws his used towel on the ground, trying to reestablish their normal dominance game early. There isn't any point in pretending any longer.

But instead of moving toward his clothes, Mustang sits on Ed's right, wincing slightly as the file beneath his ass crunches. He takes Ed's hand, threading their fingers together, and squeezes. Their hands look so odd, flesh and metal wound together. Ed can't quite feel it when he twitches his thumb over the Colonel's finger, but he swears nothing feels better than when the Colonel does it back.

Ed swallows hard, for the first time feeling like a teenager, like an inexperienced kid getting his first taste of sex, nervous on a first date, worried about making a good impression, terrified that maybe Mustang doesn't like him back. It is ridiculous because this is the Colonel and this isn't their first time, not by a long shot.

"You should probably get back," Mustang says.

"I don't have to." Ed blushes, ducking his head. "I mean it's not that unusual for me to get wrapped up in whatever I'm doing."

"No." The Colonel smiles. "It's not."

The pressure on Ed's hand is light, but it is still enough to break him.