Ignited

Roy Mustang, under the proper circumstances, could get Edward Elric buck naked and sweating in five minutes flat. He had made a study, it seemed, over the time since the first seduction, of Ed's nerves, in circumstances ranging from spreadeagled against a wall to soaking contentedly in a steaming tub--what made him gasp, what made him curse, what made him writhe, what made him harder. But nothing, it seemed, could make him scream. Nothing could make him beg. He was still that prickly, walled-up, infinitely proud boy-man he'd been when he'd whispered Roy's title in the showers a few months ago. And always fast. Fast to harden, fast to come--symptoms of youth. Fast to try awkwardly to pleasure him in return. Fast to say how much he wanted it, for he loved to be fucked, loved the sheer sensation of it, like scalding water coursing down his skin. But everything else of him was still locked away. The way it should be, perhaps, but the enigma of Fullmetal was enticing, entrancing, tempting--and Ed himself had no idea of it.

Ed decided that Roy was planning something when he stayed his hands and stripped him himself, long, rough fingers undoing his jacket, sliding off the tank top, trailing down the scars on his chest to undo his belt with languid ease. Normally Ed just squirmed out of his clothes as fast as he could, chucked them in the corner, and had done with it. Roy liked him naked--why wait? But now Roy was sliding his pants down with slow, careful intent, palms trailing down his legs--and he hadn't even thought, before Roy had first touched him there, that a knee even could be sensitive. Then Roy stood back up to the full head higher, damn him, and slid a hand behind one shoulderblade to guide him further into the room. He was naked. Roy had kissed him, nibbled his neck, rubbed a knee between his legs, and according to Ed, that was all he needed to be ready for bed.

Instead the bastard sat down in a chair.

"Come on," said Roy, waving a hand, and Ed crossed over and started to slide into his lap, disgruntled at the lack of bed, but at least if they were close enough things might still happen, and soon, he hoped. "No," said Roy gently. "Lie down, on your belly..."

"Why?"

"Trust me."

Ed closed his eyes for a moment. "Meh," he declared, and let Roy guide him so he was sprawled across his lap and the arms of the chair, head dangling over the edge, ass in the air. It felt intensely dirty and a little embarrassing; he squirmed at Roy's touch on the backs of his thighs.

"Let your arms hang," Roy added helpfully, because Ed was still trying to figure out what to do with them, so he let them dangle and inwardly thanked Roy for picking a chair with nicely padded arms, though he'd never actually say it aloud. Then he realized that Roy had somehow, damn him, managed to arrange them both so that Ed's cock wasn't touching anything at all. The air was cool and mercilessly empty, and he realized with a sigh that he probably wasn't going to get off for a while.

"I do this," said Roy quietly, "because you'd probably fall down if I don't." A crackle of light, and the crossbar of the chair reformed to hold his wrists, crossed, in a snug, comfortable grip. Strong, too, stronger than plain wood, because even his metal arm couldn't move. Bastard had planned this--the array had already been penciled onto the chair--

"Oh, that's always your excuse..." Ed grumbled.

"Do I need to bind your legs, too?"

"No," he snapped. Please don't, he thought, but he could never say such a thing. Not to Roy. "I think I can manage, thanks." His tone was exasperated. He could hear Roy chuckle softly, but with the arm of the chair the way it was, couldn't turn to see him. Roy's hand traced the automail connections that spread over his shoulderblade, ran down the compact, muscular curve of his back--and then he drew his hand away, and Ed couldn't see or guess where he might touch next, and it was infuriating, and made his skin crawl, and he got still harder.

"Fuck," he whispered. "Just what do you plan to do with me down here like this?"

"I wouldn't tell you," said Roy.

The hand returned slick and slippery. "Fuck yes," Ed whispered, and arched his hips up to meet it as much as he could, but Roy, the bastard, still insisted upon going his own pace, sliding one finger into him ever so slowly. Eventually, two. Ed tried to buck against them. "Damn it," he hissed. "I want you--" Roy's cock was stuck down there below his belly where it was going to do neither of them any good, and Ed could feel himself flushing with arousal all down his face and throat and chest.

"Wait," Roy said softly.

"Why?"

"Because it will be better if you do. You've got patience in there somewhere. I know you do. Endurance."

Ed bristled, because he was sure that was an insult somehow, but those two fingers were still in him, at least, and starting to move, a fraction of an inch at a time, painfully slow, but moving, at least. But then they slid back out, moved down for a bare, aching moment to cup his balls--and then they were gone.

"Damn you to hell," Ed whispered fiercely.

Roy ignored that and murmured, close to his ear, "There's a lot I want to do with you yet. Here. I think you might like this."

This, Ed thought at first, was the hand that clamped over his mouth, stifling him--and he didn't like that, not at all, and thrashed against it with a fierce retort all planned out, but couldn't quite manage to shake him off. But then the other hand smacked down, sudden, firm, on his ass. His eyes went wide; he yelped, muffled, into the hand over his face. Tried to kick, didn't quite have the leverage--but then stopped. It almost felt good. Pain, just a little, rolling and stinging under his skin. But that pain somehow seemed to go straight to his cock. And there was some sort of tight, aching pleasure that crawled through his skin afterwards, that burned softly, and he stopped thrashing against Roy's hand and let out a little whimper.

The hand left his mouth, and Ed didn't burst out immediately, but mumbled, after a moment, "How on earth does that feel good?"

"I must admit, I don't entirely know," Roy said calmly. "But it does, doesn't it?"

And he brought his hand down again, and again smack to sting to burn, and Ed yelped and hissed and growled. And again. And again. Each sharper, each hotter, atop of the rest, each compounding his burning want. Need, even. It was humiliating, he should be protesting--being spanked like a little kid--but his pride was being driven ever further away by his arousal, so close to coming he'd do almost anything--

"In case you're wondering, Ed," Roy said, between blows. "I'm not doing this because you're a child."

It helped, maybe, a little. Ed, cheeks burning, felt his ego bruised more than his rear. Still, he wanted it. He wanted anything. Roy kept on, and with every blow Ed thought he'd snap and yell at him to stop--but with every blow his resistance faded, more blood went south instead of in his brain where it belonged, until he thrashed uncaring across Roy's lap, making noises he'd never thought he'd make, bucking desperately away from Roy's hand, or towards it, or trying to find release in empty air--

And then it stopped.

"I'm not done with you yet," Roy whispered. Ed, left untouched, squirmed; his skin was so sensitive now that even just the air felt like electricity crawling across him. The sting was fading now, replaced by a long, slow burn that worked its way deep into him--cloying, aching heat--and it shouldn't be possible, he thought, for him to be any more aroused, it was too much, but there he was, empty air cold on his cock, sure that if Roy touched him there, touched him properly, he'd come in a second flat.

Then, there, yes, Roy was touching him, on his ass, not where he should be, but touching him again, at least--but his fingers, slightly cooler, were rough and gritty, matchbox sandpaper, and it took about five tries for Ed's melting mind to piece it together. The gloves. The fucking gloves. He was going to--

The flat of Roy's hand, slamming down with careful force, felt like fire on his skin, and Ed bit back a scream, and the pain that seared through him boiled away to pleasure faster than he'd imagined it could. At least he was given time to feel it properly, to savor it, because Roy held back for a moment while he squirmed. There must be red marks on him, he thought dimly. A perfect handprint. Marking him. Humiliating. Still, he burned for it.

Roy trailed one gloved finger down the curve at the bottom of his ass, closer and closer to the infinitely tender skin near the entrance, and Ed sucked in breath between his teeth, his eyes screwed shut--but then, without warning, he struck again.

"I'm not," he said, pausing for blows, "going to be done with you--for a while." A light touch of the harsh cloth grated over his inflamed skin, and he squealed. It was burning. He was on fire. His bound hands fisted, one white-knuckled, one with fingertips grating harsh against the palm. He gritted his teeth, yelped in spite of it, thrashed his head about as Roy went on, implacably. But Roy was being careful, so careful. Almost never was it actual, pure pain--as if anything could be when he was this hard, short of mortal injury, or automail attachment, or milk. He would almost be begging him to stop--but then Roy's other hand, also gloved, would move. Running the back of a finger--softer than the palms--up his spine, and he'd thrash in an entirely different way. Reaching around under him to roll a nipple between his fingers, sandpaper spike of pleasure down that absurd hotwire between his nipples and his cock. Straight up pain would've been easy. This wasn't. This was going to drive him insane, he thought muzzily--but he would love it, love every minute of it. Searing like fire. Searing like alchemy.

"Relax," Roy murmured, pausing again. "Stop fighting me."

I'm not exactly, he wanted to say, but couldn't wrap his tongue around it, and somehow Roy's voice went straight to his body without his mind getting in the way and he went limp, bonelessly limp, hands falling from their fists, legs sprawling--and Roy accomplished the impossible: getting Ed Elric to stop fighting. The heat engulfed him like a steaming bath, he was floating in it, and everything was falling away except for the burning weight between his legs and the terrible, inescapable feeling of it all. His eyes hazed closed. And the next blow didn't startle him from it; instead it rocked the waves; he let out a long, slow groan, didn't struggle, barely flinched, and it felt like that ignition hand was splashing beneath his skin, reaching deep into his body as it struck.

Roy nudged his legs a little further apart, and Ed didn't fight him, and thought for a moment that meant he'd-- But still he went on; blows fell; he was moving further down, almost to his thighs, and the skin there was more tender, electric sensitive, and he was moaning, his back heaving, and he didn't even know. The fire spread. He would steam, he thought wildly, incongruously, if he showered now. It would boil off his skin. It was building. It was overwhelming. Helpless in the flames, in the hands of the salamander. He screamed.

Then Roy stopped, leaving him again in empty air, but now that just meant a long, ragged moan as everything suck in that much deeper. And the hand returned, bare again and slippery slick, shockingly smooth and wet against his skin, and that could only mean--yes. A finger slid into him, and his body seemed to telescope, sheeting flame, into that one point, wanting and needing and feeling.

"There," Roy murmured. "Good boy."

Any other time, Ed might have howled his protest to the heavens, but now he barely registered the words, just the warm tone--assuring tone. It was good to hear. It made him arch his shoulderblades towards Roy. This was good. It had been confirmed.

"More," he whispered, barely aware he'd even said it. "Please." He didn't even mean to beg. Didn't even realize he had. He was wanting and helpless. That was all.

Roy, where he couldn't see, smiled, triumphant.

"Ahh," said Roy, half an hour later, rubbing the fingers of his right hand. "I nearly broke my palm on you."

Ed, puddled on the bed after the most anticipated, mind-blowing orgasm of his life, didn't even want to lift his head to answer properly. Roy sat down next to him, weight shifting the mattress. "Still tender?" he asked, quite gently, brushing one hand over Ed's rear.

"Eeeeeeeee-guh," breathed Ed, unsure whether to flinch or buck into it, unsure whether he could manage either right now.

"You'll probably be a bit sore tomorrow," Roy said, still gentle, and drew a blanket up to Ed's shoulders, and stroked his back softly. "But I think you'll manage."

"Yes," Ed breathed. He was remembering words--good. More came floating to the surface. Wonderful things, words. "I'm sure I will."

He heard Roy chuckle gently, and then the larger man stretched out beside him, not exactly snuggling or anything, but present, the warmth and weight of him behind his back. Ed twined his fingers into the blanket. Muzzy, glowing silence stretched.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Ed mumbled at last, rolling slowly onto his back, trying to ignore the residual soreness.

"I wanted to hurt you so you liked it, and I wanted to hear you scream," Roy said calmly. "And given your resistance to pain, that was a tall order. You have a very strong will."

His bare hand rested gently in the center of Ed's chest, rising and falling a little as he breathed.

"Why?" Ed asked at last, not looking at him. "Why'd you want to do that?"

"Because I thought you might enjoy it." A pause. "Because I wanted to see whether you could really let yourself go. You're always trying to hold yourself up. There are people like that. When they finally let go of themselves--there's something beautiful in that." Ed almost flinched at that. It was true, he knew; but it was almost too true to be spoken aloud. Truths of the heart. He generally pursued truths of alchemy and left it at that.

"Same back at you," he said, after a long, contemplative silence.

"And it did," said Roy, with a hint of the smirk, "leave you with a pleasant dose of humility. Small, but pleasant."

Ed was too exhausted and happy to be properly angry. He beat a hand against the bedsheets instead. "Bastard," he said. "Smug fucking--" He trailed off for a moment, then grinned. "I'm getting revenge. You realize that, you bastard. Humility indeed..."

"I look forward to it," whispered Roy, and there was just a tiny catch in his voice that made Ed's eyes go wide--for it made him think that he really meant it, that Roy really meant it, that someday Roy too would be screaming and begging and writhing under his hands.

So, a few nights later, Ed slipped into Roy's bedroom, uncertain that anything might work yet determined to weave a similar trap round the implacable Colonel, with a towel around his waist and a tall glass of ice in his hand.