Cicatrice

Ed is used to scars.

There are those around the ports of his automail–and before that, there had been the fox bite on his right shoulder. Down the length of his left arm are a multitude of thin white lines and deeper marks, from years of fighting and ordinary hard living. Across his stomach, curving around to his back, is a parallel set of three, from an angry chimera somewhere early in his career.

He is used to scars, and thinks very little of them.

Mustang, on the other hand, always seems fascinated by them. If he does not follow them with his hands, he does with his eyes, over and over, until they are like a physical touch. Ed finds this peculiar: Mustang is a soldier with scars of his own (his arms, his chest, the divot of skin over his right hip); there is no need to be fascinated with Ed’s.

“It’s weird,” he says. “You’re weird.”

“They’re badges of merit, Fullmetal,” Mustang says (but Ed knows he’s been stung: there is no flinch but the distance in Mustang’s eyes, the distance in Ed’s title rather than his name). “There is no shame in them.”

No shame, Ed thinks, but that which originated them–and it is still strange. He leans back on his hands and tries not to shiver when Mustang’s own brush at his stomach, then up to his chest. It’s easier to watch that than Mustang’s eyes: as a rule, Ed does not like to be touched, and something about that dark gaze reaches somewhere deeper than those long fingers.

Mustang pauses, as though considering. He rubs the side of his index finger against a nipple. Ed’s breath catches, and on the sheets, his fists clench. A dark head bends into his line of vision, and Ed sees a feline smile before Mustang’s tongue flickers out, serpent-quick, contact and absence damp on his skin. It happens again, and Ed makes a brief small noise, biting his lip against it. The bastard only laughs.

Ed starts to sit up, shift forward. Mustang covers Ed’s hands with his own.

“Let me see,” he murmurs, and slants up a narrow look through the fall of his hair. “You always move to hide–I want to see.” His thumbs rub at the knob of Ed’s wrist bone, at the bolt that serves the same purpose. He kisses Ed’s chest, lingeringly. “These are no shame.”

Ed’s breath strangles in his throat. Yes they are, he wants to argue, but the words are clogged in his brain, and don’t even make it down to his voice. I wouldn’t have these if I hadn’t believed–

“You’re weird,” is all he manages.

He sees a quicksilver smile pass over the man’s face. “I am trying,” he says, “to make a point.”

Mustang’s lips press to his skin again. Ed closes his eyes and leans back once more. As a reward, he receives a pleased murmur and the rasping pressure of Mustang’s tongue. It moves, slowly dragging up, and Ed has to open his eyes and look down.

He can only see part of Mustang’s face, which is shielded by dark hair and the awkward angle, but the expression is completely intent. Mustang’s long pink tongue licks broad wet stripes along the brown webbing of Ed’s chest scars, following their path up to the original source. Ed catches his breath again, holds it in his lungs; under Mustang’s hands, his own are tight and shaking.

With careful dedication, Mustang traces each scar, following every individual branch and curve and edge. Each time he brushes against the automail port, Ed’s entire body jerks. Mustang kisses his metal shoulder, and a rough noise tears itself from Ed’s throat as he lets his head fall forward.

Against him, Mustang’s body shifts. One finger presses under Ed’s chin, tilting upwards, until he finds himself looking up into a smirking face that hovers a breath away. It takes effort not to drop his eyes. There is unabashed smug hunger in Mustang’s expression, a bright spark of possessive victory. Ed pulls in a shaky breath, ready to snarl, and then Mustang’s other hand moves, cupping between his legs.

The words become a hiss; Ed’s hips surge up into pressure. Lips brush over his open mouth, closed eyelids, the concentration crease of his forehead. The hand under his chin moves so that it now splays open against his back, supporting; between his legs, the other kneads considering. Through eyes barely slitted open now, he sees Mustang’s dark head bend forward again, and once more there is warm damp pressure against his chest, lips and tongue dragging along the path of his scars.

Pressure moves hot and tight across his skin; sensation blurs together in a confused tangle inside of him. He wants to claw off his skin and be free of this itch.

“Wait,” he gasps, but he can’t make his hands unclench, can’t let go of the sheet to push Mustang away, “wait, I–”

In a smooth fast motion, the hand on his back slides down, and Ed finds himself pushed and carried backwards, to a reclining position. There is a hand now inside his pants, stroking and shaping him; there is a mouth at his throat, devouring him whole; there is heat and pressure and tension and nothing else in the world–

Ed’s eyes snap open, his entire body arching to perfect sharp tension under Mustang’s weight before his breath whistles out of him in a thin sigh. There’s a shiver against him, and then a content murmur; Mustang’s entire body rumbles with the force of his purr.

Sex always makes Ed feel like he’s been drugged, strung out to dreamy lassitude, all of his limbs too heavy and awkward. He’s still not entirely sure he likes it–he prefers his world clear, his body free to move. Mustang, though, appears quite pleased with himself; he remains draped over Ed, with his face buried at the crook of neck and shoulder. Ed considers his weight.

“You’re heavy,” he says. “Get off.”

“Hmmmm,” Mustang says into the pillow, considering. “No.”

“You’re heavy,” Ed says, with emphasis. “Get off.” He shifts, half-heartedly, and with effort lifts his left arm to swat at the back of the dark head. He earns a grunt, but no actual movement, except for a shift that pushes him harder into the mattress for a second, then subsides. The immediate aftereffects of sex are beginning to wear off; Ed’s brain no longer feels wrapped in dense cotton.

By his ear, Mustang snores once. It’s too exaggerated to be real, and Ed growls back, squirming. His neck gets nipped, and he hears Mustang grumble at him to be still, before going heavy, and a hand curves at the base of his skull, the thumb rubbing in small circles. Ed flinches first, then relaxes, cautiously.

“Get off,” he whispers to the top of Mustang’s head, and is answered by the sound of quiet breathing. Here, where he can’t be seen, Ed smiles and closes his eyes.

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