My Lover

My Lover

I’m taller than you now; I wasn’t when we started this. By no means have I caught up to anyone else, but thanks to my final growth spurts, I’m no longer the shortest member of Mustang’s team—not that it stops the bastard from reminding me he’s taller. Still, despite the fact that we are closer to equals in height, you and I very rarely change our roles in the bedroom. I’m happy as they are, and as long as I’m happy, I know you are. You’ve always been like that.

You touch my face as we lay in bed together and I can’t help but snicker.

Naturally curious—sometimes more than I am—you want to know why.

I tell you that I was thinking back to ten years ago when Hawkeye found us out. No one had thought we could last and most wondered what it was that drew me to you in the first place. Apparently, no one could picture me attaching myself to a man with such a docile, kind nature.

I’m not sure why, really, they felt that way. You remind me of my brother in all the right ways and are different enough that I don’t think I need psychoanalyzed for loving you like I do. And I do love you.

But you already know that.

Tonight, you are slow and gentle. As you lovingly kiss over the scars surrounding my automail ports, I wonder if anyone would believe me when I say you can be animalistic in bed when you want to. You look up at me with large brown eyes. Probably not. Looking at you now, I don’t know if I’d believe myself.

I run my hand through your dark hair, which you’ve grown longer at my request, as you make your way down my chest, kissing, licking, and—oh, damn it—biting. The hand I have in your hair is tightening and you’re moving—damn, get off my nipples or I’m going to be spent long before we’re halfway there, and I’m not a teenager with rapid recovery anymore.

You have an oral fixation, I think. I don’t know if there’s a spot on my body that you haven’t licked, kissed or bitten. And you really do have a fascination with my stomach and my belly button, which you can get your tongue the hell out of, thank you very much. It tickles.

You move down my thigh and, you bastard, purposely avoid the one thing that’s screaming for attention. Shit! Touch me! Don’t grin at me and kiss the other automail port!

Oh, shit, damn, shit! You didn’t touch, you engulfed. Did I ever mention that I love your oral fixation?

Oh, and your hand, that rough calloused hand, is doing incredible things to my balls. My legs part farther. Do what you will. I’m an eager participant here.

Your fingers move back as your head bobs. One slips in easily, a sign, I suppose, that we do this a lot, but the second is a little more of a struggle. I grunt, but your mouth is more than keeping me distracted. Those fingers stretch and pump repetitively until they find that wonderful gland that sonnets and epic poetry should be written about. Oh, oh, oh, damn! More! I want you! Now!

But no, you add another finger, stretching me more and look as though you’re contemplating adding another. I almost yell at you that you are not that damned big, but it will hurt your feelings and then I get nothing.

I’ve learned restraint somewhere in my twenty-seven years.

You’ve also learned how impatient I am and thankfully, don’t make me wait. You pull away, forcing me to thrust in blind lust at the air and make a needy noise—but it isn’t a whimper and don’t you dare call it that.

I see you slicking yourself down before I feel you at my entrance. Yes entrance, after years of calling it anything but a point of access, I’ve decided you’ve used it to pound me into the mattress too many times to avoid that word. Then, you push in, you enter, you join yourself to me.

It burns; it always does, but you’re careful and unhurried. When finally, you’ve fully seated yourself and my mismatched legs are firmly wrapped around your waist, you lean close and kiss me, staying inches away from my face to see the pain and discomfort fade. Poor nearsighted son of a bitch that you are, you only get to see me when we make love if you’re this close or you wear your glasses, and those either fall off or get in the way.

I tell you I’m ready and you kiss me again before withdrawing nearly entirely.

I feel your length moving at my insides, and I moan, waiting for the push back and the grunt from you as you do. You tell me how tight I am—why do you always do that?—and beautiful and wonderful. Really? A stubborn, overgrown brat with two automail limbs?

But, as you begin the steady rhythm, those enormous brown eyes half-closed as you try to watch me despite the blur and the lust, you are beautiful too. My four-eyed, soft-hearted lover, you are wonderful.

You begin chanting my name like a mantra, and I’m grateful that you no longer slip into calling me “Major, Major, Major!” as you did when we started, though I’m a colonel now. Now I’m Ed, Edward, and Love over and over.

Between my own thrusts back against you, I can only manage half coherent sentences until I finally release, clamping down on you and dragging you into orgasm with me. Now, I can think well enough to call out your name. Now, I can scream “Kain!” so loud that our neighbors would undoubtedly hear it over the soundproofing I’d done to our apartment.

You don’t pull out, even as we are in one another’s arms and falling asleep. We’ll both regret that in the morning, but not now.