Wicked_Pistil (wicked_pistil) wrote in fma_yaoi,
Wicked_Pistil
wicked_pistil
fma_yaoi

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Fic: Moth Roy/Hughes

Title: Moth
Pairing: Roy/Hughes
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1096
Summary: They should have stopped it years ago, but they hadn't.
Notes: My first Roy/Hughes. *bounces* *loves on loreamara for looking it over for me*


Blue hung on no one's shoulders like it did his.

That smile, lopsided and slow. Forging ahead on his face. A long-fingered hand sliding forward a bit, palm-down, slowly toward a stack of papers. He didn't even realize it.

Roy swallowed and inked his name on another dotted line.

Window thrown open to the summer heat. A moth fluttered by, swirled around Roy's head.

"Attracted to flame," he said.

Roy rolled his eyes.

"Done yet?"

Roy shook his head. Incorrigible. He tried to remember. Ten years? Fifteen now?

"Let’s go."

Roy frowned, flicked damp bangs from his eyes. He couldn't have asked for a more loyal dog. Gracia would likely not agree. But she'd never know.

July stuck to skin. Lights dim. It didn't really lower the temperature. It felt like it did.

And the other man was beside him. Mercury crept upward. The moth fluttered between them.

"Bar. Now."

The urgency tickled his nape. His friend was so instinctual. It was so instinctual to put his pen down, switch off the lamp.




The same scotch for ten years. That same black label, same golden fluid. Same sting in their bellies.

Cheap beer had preceded fine aged scotch. When they were kids. When they had snuck it into Academy dorms. They were more sophisticated now. Wiser. Their palates, more distinguished.

Nothing like scotch. It left Roy's tongue feeling dry before it had slipped all the way down his throat. It burned down deep. It felt like green eyes and scratchy beard and guilt. Sometimes it felt like a curved bob. That invitation for dinner, do bring a date if you want. Sometimes it felt like the perfect wife, the perfect family, the perfect home. Sometimes it made him sick.

A large hand clapped on his shoulder and his drink was refilled. He didn't have to ask. He never did.

His companion said something about the office. About some case. It didn't matter. He tipped his glass up again.

Ten years of scotch. 15 years of late-night congregation. Multitudes of tangible words and intended meaning. Of goals plotted with slurred tongue. Of -

The beard scratched at his neck.

-of lips and teeth and hands.

It was less frequent now. Less frequent, more urgent. More weight, somehow.

Large hands swatted at another moth and tugged at Friday-limp uniform. It was time to go.



Hands mapped apologies on pale skin. Blankets pooled on the floor. A dapper button floated through the air. Suspended and terrible.

She thought he was sweet for letting her visit her mother so often. The beard on his chest made Roy's back curve into a parabola. Flight trajectory.

It felt like flying sometimes. He never voiced it. Too cliche. Too not-them. They weren't gentle. They didn't have to be. Fifteen years made tenderness mere formality.

Teeth were normal now. Teeth. Sweat. Grunts. Gracia. Roy felt like a woman.

Haste bruised him. A tongue soothed. Four a.m. felt so awake.

Moans dug into a pillow, a tenor-smooth curve of back. Fifteen years of knees-to-mattress. Back-to-chest. Fifteen years. Scotch. Sweat. Moans. Three years. Gracia.

The sharp cry of his friend cut sticky air. The pace fast, rough. Long fingers fluttered over buttocks, hips, around front, gripped his cock. Roy flickered inside.

They'd never tell. Never hold eyes too long in front of her. Or ever, really. She couldn't know. She probably did. Roy rested his weight on one forearm. Slipped his hand down his own side. Over his ass. To the cleft. His friend could be so slow sometimes.

Long fingers joined his. Guided his. Longer middle finger pushing his own down. In.

It burned. They kept going.

A couple gasps. Seven slips of finger. Roy's finger was pulled up, joined a second, was pushed back in. He grunted. Wished he'd maybe had more scotch this time.

Beer had never done quite the same trick. They had finer tastes now. Roy had his liquor, stars on his shoulders. His friend gasped into darkness.

The other had her.

He clenched. Instinct. Feral. He was a wild, gnashing thing under those hands. Felt himself tighten around his own fingers.

"More?"

Dark bangs shook in the negative.

His fingers were removed. Void. The warmth of oil always made him take pause. Almost alchemy. Not that his friend knew anything about that.

He was pressed open. Fifteen-year-old ritual. Three-year-old taboo.

He grunted. Like he had countless times for many years. This was his constant. His least common denominator. His friend pressed against him. He slid open.

Familiarity filled him. Warmed him. Warned him. He glanced at his clock.

They should hurry.

He didn't want to. He wanted to take his time. Stretch it out, tension like harp strings. Sounding out with each contact, each movement. Didn't want to lie anymore.

He hadn't looked in a mirror in three years. Three years. He groaned, angled his hips back. Let his face be pressed into the pillow. It smelled of his aftershave.

He wouldn't be like this for anyone else. Face-down, palms pressed flat, swaying hips, moaning encouragement but no names. There were things they didn't need to say.

But he heard it. His name. It floated past, a delicate thing. Lovers cried out names. The man against his back whispered it. Afraid to break the tightened string holding them together. Again, again.

Roy's eyes squeezed shut. Hips thrust backward, quickening the pace. Slide, rest, recede. Restive metronome driving them closer to sunrise. Not long now.

Long fingers gripped his hip. The left side. His friend's right hand was pushing up his glasses now. Roy couldn't see. But he knew. Knew the man, his movements, his habits. He felt the length rock in, out. Closer, closer, away. Closer, closer, not close enough. He bit into the pillow.

The man curved over his back, his breaths grew closer together, manic, drowning.

He slid back once more. Sharp. Like he had for fifteen years. Practiced and precise. The phone rang. Precise. At sunrise. Like it had for three years. She always knew where to find them.

He was brief, sunny. At the station, he'd meet them there. Kiss her for me, please?

Then his pants were on. He didn't bother to clean up. It didn't matter. Roy, on his side, watching the cars begin their normal, honest journeys to work, away from family.

Roy counted. Three steps this time before he turned around, nuzzled his lips on Roy's neck.

Too bright for it, but the moth fluttered in the opened window. Creature of night basking in sunrise for a suspended moment.
Tags: author: wicked_pistil, pairing: roy x maes, rating: r
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