Happy Royai Day (this is a day late because I was traveling yesterday)
Not graphic, but M for a reason.
I do not own FMA.
He would wait till the door was closed.
This should have been simple, this waiting, but he had been waiting for twenty plus years and the relaxed freedom of the few drinks he'd had had worn off.
She took her time unlocking the apartment.
They were still in their uniforms, having decided to grab something to eat before heading to their prospective homes.
She had been unusually enticing tonight. That is to say more enticing than usual.
He knew it had nothing to do with their earlier surroundings, one of his mother's bars that he knew well enough that it did not contain that magic of the unfamiliar.
He didn't know, she just seemed more available tonight. As if all her years of resisting their pull had worn through the bindings of decorum and regulation.
He knew something changed, the way she readily agreed to dinner and how much closer to him she had sat at the bar. When he demanded he walk her home, she said yes, and, during their walk, she suggested he come up to her apartment for some tea before heading home. He readily agreed, having lost all will to stay apart from her years ago. Nothing would keep him from touching her tonight.
He followed her in, waiting for her to close the door and signal that the time was now.
She didn't though. She left it open and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He realized she trusted him to close the door.
The weight, the burden, of their choices resting on him. This was a moment he had been waiting to bear his whole life.
He closed the door, locking the dead bolt without ever looking at it. She came back, her military jacket already unbuttoned. She slid it off revealing her tight, black turtleneck underneath.
He took the moment to appreciate this choice of undershirt instead of the crisp cotton one that was available.
She unlaced her boots, removed them, and set them by the door. "You can remove your jacket and boots too sir, if you'd like."
There it was again, the burden of staying placed in his hands. Of course he would like.
He began to undo his jacket buttons when she informed him she would be right back as she moved to the back of her apartment.
He quickly removed his jacket the remainder of the way, took off his boots, setting them comfortably next to hers, and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt.
The kettle made a strangled garble so he moved into the kitchen to check on it. It seemed to be boiling so he turned it off, startled at her voice behind him. "It heated up so quickly, I wasn't excepting to make the tea straightaways."
He turned to her.
She had changed.
Her hair was down, she had replaced the turtleneck with a tank top, much to his pleasure, pants were replaced by shorts, and, as he let his eyes travel down her enjoyable legs, he whimpered.
There, on her feet, were white cotton socks, exactly like the ones she had worn when they were youth, exactly like the ones that had featured in his juvenile fantasies and older dreams. They were his undoing.
He lunged toward her, catching her off guard, pushing her back into the wall. She muttered a "sir" a moment before his lips came down on hers.
He stopped, his lips were touching hers, but did not move. His rebuttal, "socks", and closed the distance, igniting a kiss beyond all fantasies either of them had had. Deep and needy, light and breathy, all of them between at that moment.
She groaned, he pressed further into her, he moaned, she pulled him closer still. There was no more room between them, no separate air to breath, they were one entity now, occupying the same place in space and time.
He was heady with his acquisition, this taking of her lips. He would lavish her with his kisses, worship her with his breath, become one with her through his body.
Driven to taste all that he could of this woman writhing beneath him, he began to move, trailing kisses along her jaw, listening to her soft sounds of pleasure.
He moved to her ear, tracing it with his tongue and breathing her name into it. She melted further to him, her arms pulling his shirt out and hands running up his bare back.
Somewhere in his subconscious, he knew that he was to be her first. Her only. However, she moved as if she had repeated this scenario a thousand times. He knew he had, in his dreams, day dreams, when he was with other women because he was an ignorant sot.
His lips came into contact with the scar along her neck. She lived for him, and because of him. He was not foolish enough to believe his order had kept her alive, but was egotistical enough to believe she believed that it did. He kissed the scar, trailing his tongue along it, finding out it was as sensitive as his own wounds, and in this case, it was a very good thing.
She moved her hands to the front of his shirt, unbuttoning it with quick precision. How she could keep her wits about her, he didn't know. She quickly removed his shirt and undershirt, though he was loathe to be apart from her for that moment. He took the opportunity to remove her top, yanking it quickly over her head so he could be back in her presence that much faster.
When they came together again, they both froze. Neither was prepared for the electricity that accompanied skin on skin. They didn't know how to proceed. Would this shatter beneath them, would the very atmosphere explode around them from what was flowing between them?
Wanting to find out, he kissed her passionately again, his tongue meeting hers as they fought to share with each other what the other was feeling. Her knees were giving way from the kiss, and the skin, and the shear force of who they were together. "Bedroom"...
He gladly led her backwards toward the room, never breaking their kiss, yet still able to discard all their clothing in the process.
She lay on the bed and he drank her in, hair flowing around her head, body flush and glowing, tense with anticipation, white cotton socks still on her feet.
This was home. He was finally home, here, with her, his life.
There was no need to hurry. He worshipped her with every part of him and vice versa. She was an exquisite lover, his exquisite love. He would marry her. She would bear his children. They would be family.
Later, after they had recovered a little of their senses, she lay with her back to him, his arms around her, legs and sheets tangled about them. He brushed her hair away from her ear and planted a kiss on the nape of her neck.
"Mmmmmmm...the simple things are perfect."
"You like that?" He said while turning her toward him, trailing kisses along her collar bone and placing a kiss on the top of each perfect globe before him.
"MMMmmmmmm..." more kisses, they would not be leaving this room tonight. Or perhaps ever.
"I'm so glad you closed the door."