Carve Me Out

Fullmetal Alchemist. Hughes/Roy. prior Hughes/Roy/Gracia. NC-17. ~1500 words. Futurefic.

He can’t wait, not for this.

Carve Me Out

His fingers stretch across the bare floor. There’s something slick beneath his hands, something familiar, and a sharp metallic smell overwhelms the scent of old wood. Memories unfold, blossom slowly in his sluggish mind only to fade into shadows where he can’t reach them. A woman’s face, a ringing gunshot, the cry of a child, a warm body in his arms. Everything is not right, dislocated, even his limbs feel wrong.

Pale hands find his face. A thumb traces his cheek. He’s felt this before. He raises his eyes.

“Welcome back.”

He knows this voice. He’s heard it before, many times. Sleepy morning greetings spoken into his shoulder, anger spitting through the crackle of a phoneline, the needy cry of his name between soft, panting moans. His nails curl, dig furrows into the wood.

“Roy,” he hisses.

Roy’s hand jerks away and he sits down heavily, shoulders slumping in a thin button-down. Red is drying to brown in spatters and sweeps across white cotton. He lifts a heavy tumbler to his lips. There is a rattle of ice and a slosh of liquid that shares the colour of the late-afternoon sun glowing on the hardwood around them.

“Roy,” Hughes says again, and there is strength behind the name. An overwhelming sensation of need and want and must have that is nothing like he can recall in all his fragments of memory.

“I-” Roy stops short and laughs. It is a bitter, hollow sound. He looks up and away from Hughes.

Joints snap and twist, and the bones along Hughes’s spine settle into a line. He lifts an arm, stares at it as if it is a new thing, and tries to touch his maker.

He can’t quite reach, and his lips peel back, curl away from his teeth.

“It wasn’t supposed to work,” Roy says, and there is something wet on his face.

Hughes withdraws his hand, something else triggered in the very core of his being, but the needwanthave is too strong. He surges forward, clawing and scrabbling until he finds the bend of Roy’s knee.

Roy laughs again and wipes his face on his sleeve. Swallowing the last of his drink, he sets it down carefully beside a broken pictureframe. “You’re a mess, Hughes,” he says, picking up a shard of glass.

“Hungry?” he asks, and then blood is flowing down his arm, rich and red as it winds towards his fingertips. He leans forward, pushes his fingers into Hughes’s mouth.

Hughes drinks greedily at life freely given, his tongue winding between slim digits as the salt taste spreads across his tongue. He struggles to his knees and Roy’s lips press against his forehead.

“Enough, enough…” Roy says, and pushes him back.

His eyes flash hungrily and he licks his teeth. There can never be enough.

“More,” he says, crawling forward, arms straddling Roy’s legs. He presses his cheek high against Roy’s thigh, draws in a deep breath, and scrapes sharp teeth against dark fabric. “More, Roy.”

Roy pushes him away again and shivers. He tears a strip from the hem of his shirt and binds the wound on his arm.

“More,” Hughes says again, and finds a boot against his shoulder holding him back.

“No,” Roy says.

Hughes turns his head, licks a spatter of blood off black leather. He can’t take no for an answer. “Then give me something else,” he says. The words come easier now.

Roy kicks him away and staggers to his feet, looking up again as if searching for something like forgiveness. Hughes’s eyes fix to the line of Roy’s throat, so tempting and exposed. He forces his legs to work, to stand, to step forward, and then it all flows, muscle and bone working together as his hands find Roy’s shoulders.

He slams Roy back against the wall hard enough to rattle the bookshelves. Dust scatters to float in the dying light. His mouth finds Roy’s throat, and he licks at the pulse beating quick under the curve of Roy’s jaw. Roy struggles as he nips at skin hard enough to leave a mark. “Give me what you used to give me.”

“You aren’t the sa-” Roy begins, but Hughes presses tight against him and cuts off the rest of the protest with a kiss.

He pushes his tongue deep into Roy’s mouth and slides his hands down, tearing at Roy’s trousers when the button won’t give easily. “But, I’m yours,” he says, and leaves desperate, hungry kisses to wet Roy’s neck before spinning him around and kicking apart his legs.

Memories flash. Roy on his back in rumpled sheets, knees up and spread, dark hair sticking to the sweat on his brow. Roy bent over his desk, arms stretched, hands curling over the edge, pushing back against him. Roy straddled on top of him, back curving as he eases down while a woman’s hands slide over them both. It was easy then, wasn’t it, he thinks. He pushes forward as Roy shakes and shudders.

“W-wait,” Roy says, and a raw sound is ripped from his throat as Hughes doesn’t listen.

He can’t wait, not for this.

Hughes breathes harsh and heavy against the nape of Roy’s neck, fine hair tickling against his lips as he forces in, pushes his cock past resisting muscle. Roy is all soft heat and broken sounds, and all Hughes can think is more. His fingers curl tight around Roy’s hip as he slides in, deeper and deeper, until Roy has taken the full length of him.

His feet arch to find purchase on the floor, tiny bits of glass prickling against his soles. He thrusts, crude and rhythmless, each rough marionette jerk of his body against Roy’s two steps away from pure instinct.

It’s over in minutes. The spike of pleasure and the rush of his come turns everything slick and sweet. Easy like he remembers it being, but wrong like everything he knows now. Roy trembles as he withdraws, and he steps back, his cock heavy and dripping.

“Roy,” he says, callused fingertips brushing over red marks in the shape of his hand that stain Roy’s hip.

When Roy doesn’t move, Hughes does. He catches one dangling arm and pulls Roy to him. “I’m sorry,” he says, and there is a part of him that means it. Time would teach him to be patient, time would make him stronger.

“Let me-” Hughes says, words abandoned to kiss Roy again. He wraps strong arms around Roy and carries him down until Roy’s back meets the wood of the floor.

“Let you…” Roy groans, and Hughes can hear desire under the raw hurt of his voice.

“Yes,” Hughes says. The lines of the array smudge and smear as he pushes Roy’s knees apart, drags the back of his hand up to where the trail of his come has spilled down Roy’s leg. He gathers it up with his finger, and pushes it back into Roy’s body. Little resistance this time. Go slow, go slow…

“Maes,” Roy says, and his head tilts back as Hughes’s breath washes warm over his skin.

“Yes,” Hughes murmurs. His lips find Roy’s cock, and he curls it into his mouth with his tongue, feels it harden and begin to fill his mouth. Yes, he wants this too. Needs it. He moans, the sound humming through his teeth, and muscle twitches and clutches around his finger as he starts to suck.

He expects hands in his hair—kneeling on the tiled floor of an office, gloved hands gripping the edge of a desk before they curve over his skull, knuckles twisting into his hair to tug and guide his head—but there is nothing, and he looks up to see Roy’s arms stretched over his head, white-knuckle fingers gripping the post of a table.

Hughes crooks his finger, strokes it in the slippery heat of Roy’s body to trigger sensation until Roy is squirming and the harsh sounds of his breathing are quick in the silence of the room. It won’t take long, no…

His tongue traces the vein on the underside of Roy’s cock, so hard now in his mouth. He closes his eyes, fills his world with the soft, plaintive sounds tumbling from parted lips. Roy’s hips twist and the heel of his boots scrabble and scrape through blood and glass. And then it’s the tense and swell, the pause like the calm before the storm, and Roy is coming, spilling into his mouth.

Hughes takes it all, drinks everything down, and opens his eyes when Roy falls into a boneless sprawl.

His fingers stretch across the bare floor. He finds Roy’s sleeve, and rests his cheek against the plane of Roy’s stomach. “I’m yours,” he says, and tugs Roy’s arm down until he can curl long fingers around one slender wrist. “And you’re mine.”



2 thoughts on “Carve Me Out

  1. Melissa

    i think you don’t know me, but thats not important anyway^^
    i just wanted to leave you a little comment, because that story was really good and really sad.
    (my english is not that good, so i’m not sure, if i understand it all)
    roy revived maes from the dead didn’t he?
    that’s scary… because he’s just like ed and al’s mum. some kind of a human with the joints in different places and… *shudder*
    even it is a bit scary, i like the story.
    cause roy wanted hughes so much back, that he revived him from the dead and i love this pairing :p

    i hope i can read more of your stuff

  2. Pond Post author

    Thank you so much for letting me know you liked it. I think you understood it quite well! I love the pairing too, and it’s my favourite from FMA. Some day I hope to write a happy story where Maes comes back!

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