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rajTitle: Kiss Your Past Goodbye
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raja815
Pairing/Fandom: Pre-Jean Havoc/ Roy Mustang, Fullmetal Alchemist
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3159
Warnings Voyeurism, masturbation, smut. Set pre-series.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is © Hiromu Arakawa. I will make no capitol benefit from this.
Author's Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ficalbum, for my claim of Aerosmith's Nine Lives album, for the song "Kiss Your Past Goodbye." See lyrics here. Set a year and a half after the Ishbal rebellion; therefor military rankings are lower than during the series.
Lovingly dedicated togaluxkitty, who shares my delight in the matter of Jean's masturbating. :D
It had been a year and a half since he’d left Ishbal, and the memories had yet to fade. True, this current campaign was about as far from the massacre as one could hope—just a minor border dispute with Creata, with only six confirmed casualties—but just being situated once again in an active military camp had brought Lieutenant Colonel Mustang right back. Oh yes; it was times like these the dog could really feel the choke of the leash wrapped around his neck.
But he still had a duty to his country and his own personal agenda to meet, and he couldn’t hide behind a desk forever, not if he was going to rectify what had been done in Ishbal. So he went and tried to sleep through the night on his uncomfortable cot despite the sounds of sporadic gunfire at night and to keep from snapping when sudden noises startled him during the day.
Mustang was on edge, far too on edge, and he knew it. Fortunately, his presence was little more than formality at this point; it was just good sense to keep a State Alchemist on hand. Mostly he was functioning as an executive officer, maintaining the encampment and the hundred Amestrian soldiers in it.
When he wasn’t inspecting he’d taken to making long, circuitous treks around the campsite, keeping his mind blissfully clear as he watched the hubbub of the camp go by. One day while he was so engaged, he came upon a group of soldiers engaged in shooting practice. He’d watched them for a while instead.
It was the fourth soldier that stepped up to fire at the pre-positioned tagets that finally managed to catch Mustang’s attention; a tall man with the most unruly shock of golden blond hair Mustang had ever seen in his life. He watched the man kneel, position the butt of the rifle at his shoulder, narrow his eyes, and pull the trigger.
He was good—damn good. Not the best Mustang had ever seen, but better than any of the other troops he’d noticed here. All the while he shot, he stared forward, eyes focused and somehow sincere as he pulled the trigger time after time.
When he finished, he stood, and began to disassemble the rifle for cleaning, the look of stern concentration replaced by a wide, lopsided grin as he accepted the compliments and banter of his fellow soldiers. As the next man stepped up to take a shot, the blond stood off to one side, and began to clean his gun. Mustang kept watching, as the young man oiled the metal and returned it carefully to its case beside him, then settled down to watch his companion shoot.
Barely even aware he was doing so, Mustang walked toward him, dismissing the salutes that the other soldiers threw at him with a quiet “at ease,” until he stood beside the blond man, who had removed a half-empty pack of cigarettes from his pocket. When the man’s eye darted toward the sudden motion beside him, he leapt to his feet and saluted.
“Sir!” He said, looking down at Mustang from his slightly superior height with kind, honest eyes.
Mustang waved a hand. “At ease,” he repeated, and the blond man lowered his hand, looking a bit confused. “You have considerable skill with a firearm,” Mustang continued, gesturing to the gun case with one gloved finger.
“Thank you, Sir.” Mustang saw a slight tremor of muscle in the other man’s right arm, and knew he was fighting the ingrained urge to salute.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Sergeant Jean Havoc, Sir.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang.”
Havoc gave a peculiar, constrained nod. “Yes, Sir. I know, Sir…” He smiled again, that lopsided flash of teeth, and gave a short laugh.
“Very well,” Mustang smiled slightly, “as you were, Sergeant.” He lowered himself to the crate Havoc had been sitting on, and the smile tugged at his lips again when the other man sat, rather tentatively, beside him.
“It’s good to see the troops get some practice in once in a while,” Mustang remarked, for lack of anything else to say.
Havoc nodded. “Yes, Sir… I’ve been pulled for night watch on Thursdays, I wanted to get some extra practice in.”
“Well, the encampment appears to be in very good hands.”
“Thank you very much, Sir.”
The Sergeant had a long, handsome face, as yet unlined by any troubles; perhaps as much as five years Mustang’s junior, by his appearance.
“Is this your first campaign, Sergeant?”
Havoc grinned, fiddling absently with the trim of his coattails. “My second. I enlisted when I was seventeen and spent a few months in Areugo. Mostly I’ve been stationed outside of West City… hoping for a transfer, I’d like to be in the East.”
“Any reason why?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Just because I was raised in the East, I guess… feels more comfortable.” He tapped the package of cigarettes and held it up. “Sir… mind if I-“
Mustang motioned indulgence. “Please.” The smile of relief that washed across the younger man’s face was amusing to say the least. Even more so when Havoc held the box toward Mustang in a silent offer.
“No, thank you,” Mustang replied, and as Havoc placed the cigarette between his lips and reached down to his pocket for a lighter, Mustang stopped his fingers with one hand. He raised the other, thumb and forefingers together, level to the other man’s face.
“No need, Sergeant,” Mustang said. “Allow me.”
***
A few weeks later, Mustang’s sense of unease had escalated rather than decreased as the sporadic gunfire at night grew in its frequency. A deep sense of dread that this minor conflict was on the verge of becoming a full-out battle gnawed at the back of his mind, leaving him tossing and turning on his canvas cot, his eyes snapping open with every slight noise. Once he heard an owl far in the distance, and was nearly sick when his weary mind heard it as a child’s scream.
Get a grip on yourself, Mustang, he thought irritably, this isn’t Ishbal. But the fact that that was all over and done with bore little relevance on his current state of mind, and in the end he got up and redressed, telling himself he needed to inspect the camp, though he knew it was really just an excuse to be away from his thoughts for a bit.
He walked over by the mess tent, where tomorrow’s breakfast was already in its early stages, past the supply tent where a late-night poker game was winding down (a heavyset red-haired soldier seemed to be emerging as the winner, judging by his grin, the large pile of coins in front of him, and his companions’ glares), and finally into the rows of pup tents.
It was late enough that most of the tents were still, their flaps securely tied down. Soft snores could be heard from some, hushed voices in others, but mostly the area was silent but for the soft sound of Mustang’s boots on the beaten path between the rows of tents. They’d been there long enough that the grassy area between the tents had been reduced to dust by hundreds of boots, and the bare earth seemed to amplify the soft pad of his feet.
Nearing the end of one of the back rows of tents the grass came back to a degree and his feet were silent again. Mustang found he missed the noise. In an absurd way, it had been keeping him company.
When he finally did hear another sound, closer and more organic then the distant rounds of gunfire, he practically sighed with relief and wondered toward its source.
There was a tent at the end of the row with a thin line of lantern light emerging from a crack in the canvas where the flap hadn’t been securely tied down. Almost without thinking, Mustang crept closer, leaning in to fit his line of sight to the angle of the tent flap.
The first thing he saw was an empty cot, blanket neatly folded at the foot, with a few personal effects stacked around it. There were no boots, no clothing, and no firearm in sight; obviously the cot’s occupant was somewhere on night watch duty.
He heard the sound again—perhaps the rustle of paper?—and turned slightly to see the tent’s other cot. On it was stretched a tall, muscular body, face obscured by a small paper booklet he held, with an unruly shock of golden blond hair—
“Sergeant Jean Havoc, Sir.”
His voice was so loud in Mustang’s memory that it was practically audible. Mustang’s mouth twitched slightly at the corners with the recognition, almost spreading into a smile.
The Sergeant was clothed simply in a regulation undershirt, his blanket pulled up to his waist. The small lantern beside him was turned down low, flickering and sending wild shadows over his body. When he reached up to flick one of the pages of the pamphlet he was reading, his arm obscured the faint light completely. He shifted, turning to his side, and laid his booklet on the cot beside his face.
It occurred to Mustang somewhere in the back of his mind that spying on one of his soldiers was way beyond the boundaries of appropriate conduct for a superior officer, and that he should leave right this second. Instead, he sank slowly to his knees, careful not to make a sound, until he was hidden from view of the other tents by the shadows and peered back through the flap at Havoc.
Of course it was wildly inappropriate, but watching Havoc made him feel more at peace than he had in… in quite some time.
Havoc ran a hand backwards through his hair before taking the remains of the cigarette that had been dangling from his lips and snuffing it out on the dirt floor beneath him. He sighed, shifted a little, and raked his fingers through his hair again. Sighing again, he slid his hand down over his face, running the pads of his fingers over his closed eyelids, across his cheeks and down his chin, stopping to bite down lightly on the tip of his little finger. He nibbled at the nail for a moment before closing his lips over it and sucking it lightly.
Mustang’s brow furrowed, and he felt a slight heat rush over his cheeks. His eyes locked on the Sergeant’s lips, on the way they played over the skin of his finger. When Havoc slid the tip of a second finger into his mouth, the heat moved to the pit of Mustang’s stomach.
Suddenly, the blond’s eyes snapped open, and Mustang, sure he was caught, froze, the pleasant warmth in his stomach vanishing at the prospect of the coming confrontation.
However, the Sergeant’s eyes passed smoothly over the flap of the tent, coming to rest on the empty cot across from him. The soldier’s blue eyes flicked back and forth from his own body to the empty bed, before he seemed assured that his tent mate was nowhere nearby and closed his eyes again. He flipped over onto his back in a sudden, smooth motion that made the dog tags around his neck clank together and send bright flashes of reflected lantern light across the roof of the tent.
The fingers of his right hand found their way back to his mouth, while his left slowly stroked down his neck, across his chest, stopping for a moment to tease at a nipple, visibly hard under the thin cotton of his undershirt. Continuing, he slid his hand under the green blanket at his waist. His shoulders tensed, and the faintest sound of a whimper emerged from around the fingers still in his mouth.
Outside, Mustang’s heart pounded, his eyes wide. His mind raced—you need to leave, you can’t watch him do this, leave, leave now, leave now— as the heat in his stomach traveled lower and he felt the heaviness in his cock that marked the beginning of an erection.
He rose to his haunches, intending to do just that, to leave Havoc in privacy, when the blond kicked the rough fabric of the blanket away, revealing his hand running back and forth over an impressive bulge in his shorts.
Unable to look away, Mustang merely shifted, staring through the flap as Havoc took his fingers from his lips, running them down his neck and leaving a trail of moisture that glinted in the flickering lamplight, and tugged his boxers down, leaving them and his blanket gathered around his upper thighs.
His cock rose in a slight upward curve from a patch of darker gold hair, huge and hard and flushed dark with arousal. Extending one finger, trembling slightly if the shadow it cast was any indication, Havoc traced the lines of veins down to his balls, stroked them, and toyed with the loose skin at their base before gently cupping them. He sighed, a deep, soft sound, and brought his finger upwards again, retracing its previous path and noticeably shaking now. The gasp that wrenched itself from his lips as he encircled his erection with his hand mirrored the one Mustang suddenly had to bite back.
Havoc pumped himself slowly, his face tensing, and he bit down onto his lower lip. He stroked the tip with the fingers on his other hand, still moist from his mouth, and arched up, biting harder on his lip but not quite containing a sudden whimper of pleasure.
By now, Mustang’s own erection was throbbing in the confines of his pants. He slid the zipper on his fly halfway down, wincing at the slight noise it made, in an effort to relieve some of the pressure. His cock only throbbed more insistently at the slight touch, and the sudden sight of Havoc bucking his hips upward did very little to help matters either.
The stiff canvas of the cot groaned as Havoc’s speed increased, not quite loud enough to cover the solder’s panting gasps of breath, try as he might to keep quiet. Mustang breathed deeply at the sight, trying to calm himself, and instead half choked in the effort to hold back a moan as he caught the musky, sweaty smell of Havoc’s arousal.
Mustang pressed his face closer, his nose almost touching the canvas in an unconscious effort to move closer to the soldier. Precum gleamed at the tip of Havoc’s straining hard-on, and a small drop leaked down, striping the head of his cock with a bright glint of lantern light, and he reached up with his thumb to stroke over the tip, running his other hand over his thighs as he thrust upward. The muscles of his legs tensed and he threw his head back, uttering a short, growling noise that made Mustang gasp so loudly that had Havoc not been utterly lost in his own fantasy, the Lieutenant Colonel would’ve been caught for sure.
Pressing a firm hand over his mouth, Mustang’s breath beat against his palm in time with his throbbing heart in his desperate attempt to keep silent. He slid his zipper the rest of the way down, hoping the cool air would ease some of the heat. Instead, his cock only throbbed harder.
Havoc whimpered again, pumping himself harder, using the slickness of his precum to lubricate his hand, making it slide easier. He groaned, pulling his undershirt aside and running his free hand over his chest.
“God,” Havoc moaned in a loud whisper, almost begging, and for a minute, Roy was almost overpowered by the urge to enter the tent, to close his fist over Havoc’s, lie on top of him, kiss him hard and sloppy and hungry, to lick his erection slick and slide himself over it, to ride him hard and fast and-
Mustang gasped, his fantasy so clear that he could practically feel Havoc beneath him. His vision blurred, and his cock throbbed so hard he thought he might actually be coming, however impossible that seemed. He wasn’t, but he did find himself unable to resist any longer and closed his fist around his straining erection.
“God, yes, ahh…” Havoc muttered, stroking himself harder, faster, eyes opening to watch his hand on his cock. He thumbed at one nipple as he whimpered.
“Yes…” Roy whispered under his breath, drinking the sight of the man before him hovering so near the edge. “Oh, Havoc… Havoc… oh, God, Havoc… Havoc…” He whispered it, over and over, as his hand sped along his cock.
Havoc was close, very close, and he raised his hand to his mouth, biting down on his fist as he thrust faster, hips rolling upward as his hand moved down, until even his fist couldn’t block all the sound of his moans.
“Ahh,” Havoc gasped, muffled around his fist, and at his voice Mustang went over the edge, shaking and biting his lips hard enough to taste blood in his effort not to scream the soldier’s name for the entire camp to hear. His muscles screamed with tenseness as he came, streaking his hand and the dust in front of Havoc’s tent.
His eyes opened, blurred slightly with his orgasm, just in time to watch Havoc tense, his muscles straining, throw his head back and sob out a stream of nonsensical syllables muffled only slightly by his fist and come, hard, fist still pumping as he shot all over his stomach and hand.
Roy took a deep breath, trying to calm himself as Havoc’s hand dropped to his side. The blond’s eyes closed, and he lay for a moment in complete relaxation. Finally he stirred, took a towel from a small stack of his belongings beside his cot, and smeared his cum away from his belly before righting his clothes and pulling his blanket up to his chin, leaving tips of his socks visible—he was a few inches too tall for the cot. He dropped the towel and the booklet he’d been looking at earlier on the ground and sleepily doused the wick of the lantern, plunging his tent into darkness.
For a moment, Roy remained kneeling, still hypnotized by what he’d just seen. Finally the sound of voices in the far distance brought him back to himself and he stood, albeit shakily, and tucked himself back into his pants. He wiped his hand on a small patch of grass and kicked dust over the streaks of semen by the tent flap. He stretched, feeling both achy and sated, and began to walk. He took the longer route back to his tent to ensure the unlikelihood of him meeting anyone.
He felt, for the first time in weeks, that he might rest easy that night.
***
Comments inspire great joy in Raj's soul. ;)
Author:
raja815Pairing/Fandom: Pre-Jean Havoc/ Roy Mustang, Fullmetal Alchemist
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3159
Warnings Voyeurism, masturbation, smut. Set pre-series.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is © Hiromu Arakawa. I will make no capitol benefit from this.
Author's Notes: Written for
ficalbum, for my claim of Aerosmith's Nine Lives album, for the song "Kiss Your Past Goodbye." See lyrics here. Set a year and a half after the Ishbal rebellion; therefor military rankings are lower than during the series.Lovingly dedicated to
galuxkitty, who shares my delight in the matter of Jean's masturbating. :DIt had been a year and a half since he’d left Ishbal, and the memories had yet to fade. True, this current campaign was about as far from the massacre as one could hope—just a minor border dispute with Creata, with only six confirmed casualties—but just being situated once again in an active military camp had brought Lieutenant Colonel Mustang right back. Oh yes; it was times like these the dog could really feel the choke of the leash wrapped around his neck.
But he still had a duty to his country and his own personal agenda to meet, and he couldn’t hide behind a desk forever, not if he was going to rectify what had been done in Ishbal. So he went and tried to sleep through the night on his uncomfortable cot despite the sounds of sporadic gunfire at night and to keep from snapping when sudden noises startled him during the day.
Mustang was on edge, far too on edge, and he knew it. Fortunately, his presence was little more than formality at this point; it was just good sense to keep a State Alchemist on hand. Mostly he was functioning as an executive officer, maintaining the encampment and the hundred Amestrian soldiers in it.
When he wasn’t inspecting he’d taken to making long, circuitous treks around the campsite, keeping his mind blissfully clear as he watched the hubbub of the camp go by. One day while he was so engaged, he came upon a group of soldiers engaged in shooting practice. He’d watched them for a while instead.
It was the fourth soldier that stepped up to fire at the pre-positioned tagets that finally managed to catch Mustang’s attention; a tall man with the most unruly shock of golden blond hair Mustang had ever seen in his life. He watched the man kneel, position the butt of the rifle at his shoulder, narrow his eyes, and pull the trigger.
He was good—damn good. Not the best Mustang had ever seen, but better than any of the other troops he’d noticed here. All the while he shot, he stared forward, eyes focused and somehow sincere as he pulled the trigger time after time.
When he finished, he stood, and began to disassemble the rifle for cleaning, the look of stern concentration replaced by a wide, lopsided grin as he accepted the compliments and banter of his fellow soldiers. As the next man stepped up to take a shot, the blond stood off to one side, and began to clean his gun. Mustang kept watching, as the young man oiled the metal and returned it carefully to its case beside him, then settled down to watch his companion shoot.
Barely even aware he was doing so, Mustang walked toward him, dismissing the salutes that the other soldiers threw at him with a quiet “at ease,” until he stood beside the blond man, who had removed a half-empty pack of cigarettes from his pocket. When the man’s eye darted toward the sudden motion beside him, he leapt to his feet and saluted.
“Sir!” He said, looking down at Mustang from his slightly superior height with kind, honest eyes.
Mustang waved a hand. “At ease,” he repeated, and the blond man lowered his hand, looking a bit confused. “You have considerable skill with a firearm,” Mustang continued, gesturing to the gun case with one gloved finger.
“Thank you, Sir.” Mustang saw a slight tremor of muscle in the other man’s right arm, and knew he was fighting the ingrained urge to salute.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Sergeant Jean Havoc, Sir.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang.”
Havoc gave a peculiar, constrained nod. “Yes, Sir. I know, Sir…” He smiled again, that lopsided flash of teeth, and gave a short laugh.
“Very well,” Mustang smiled slightly, “as you were, Sergeant.” He lowered himself to the crate Havoc had been sitting on, and the smile tugged at his lips again when the other man sat, rather tentatively, beside him.
“It’s good to see the troops get some practice in once in a while,” Mustang remarked, for lack of anything else to say.
Havoc nodded. “Yes, Sir… I’ve been pulled for night watch on Thursdays, I wanted to get some extra practice in.”
“Well, the encampment appears to be in very good hands.”
“Thank you very much, Sir.”
The Sergeant had a long, handsome face, as yet unlined by any troubles; perhaps as much as five years Mustang’s junior, by his appearance.
“Is this your first campaign, Sergeant?”
Havoc grinned, fiddling absently with the trim of his coattails. “My second. I enlisted when I was seventeen and spent a few months in Areugo. Mostly I’ve been stationed outside of West City… hoping for a transfer, I’d like to be in the East.”
“Any reason why?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Just because I was raised in the East, I guess… feels more comfortable.” He tapped the package of cigarettes and held it up. “Sir… mind if I-“
Mustang motioned indulgence. “Please.” The smile of relief that washed across the younger man’s face was amusing to say the least. Even more so when Havoc held the box toward Mustang in a silent offer.
“No, thank you,” Mustang replied, and as Havoc placed the cigarette between his lips and reached down to his pocket for a lighter, Mustang stopped his fingers with one hand. He raised the other, thumb and forefingers together, level to the other man’s face.
“No need, Sergeant,” Mustang said. “Allow me.”
A few weeks later, Mustang’s sense of unease had escalated rather than decreased as the sporadic gunfire at night grew in its frequency. A deep sense of dread that this minor conflict was on the verge of becoming a full-out battle gnawed at the back of his mind, leaving him tossing and turning on his canvas cot, his eyes snapping open with every slight noise. Once he heard an owl far in the distance, and was nearly sick when his weary mind heard it as a child’s scream.
Get a grip on yourself, Mustang, he thought irritably, this isn’t Ishbal. But the fact that that was all over and done with bore little relevance on his current state of mind, and in the end he got up and redressed, telling himself he needed to inspect the camp, though he knew it was really just an excuse to be away from his thoughts for a bit.
He walked over by the mess tent, where tomorrow’s breakfast was already in its early stages, past the supply tent where a late-night poker game was winding down (a heavyset red-haired soldier seemed to be emerging as the winner, judging by his grin, the large pile of coins in front of him, and his companions’ glares), and finally into the rows of pup tents.
It was late enough that most of the tents were still, their flaps securely tied down. Soft snores could be heard from some, hushed voices in others, but mostly the area was silent but for the soft sound of Mustang’s boots on the beaten path between the rows of tents. They’d been there long enough that the grassy area between the tents had been reduced to dust by hundreds of boots, and the bare earth seemed to amplify the soft pad of his feet.
Nearing the end of one of the back rows of tents the grass came back to a degree and his feet were silent again. Mustang found he missed the noise. In an absurd way, it had been keeping him company.
When he finally did hear another sound, closer and more organic then the distant rounds of gunfire, he practically sighed with relief and wondered toward its source.
There was a tent at the end of the row with a thin line of lantern light emerging from a crack in the canvas where the flap hadn’t been securely tied down. Almost without thinking, Mustang crept closer, leaning in to fit his line of sight to the angle of the tent flap.
The first thing he saw was an empty cot, blanket neatly folded at the foot, with a few personal effects stacked around it. There were no boots, no clothing, and no firearm in sight; obviously the cot’s occupant was somewhere on night watch duty.
He heard the sound again—perhaps the rustle of paper?—and turned slightly to see the tent’s other cot. On it was stretched a tall, muscular body, face obscured by a small paper booklet he held, with an unruly shock of golden blond hair—
“Sergeant Jean Havoc, Sir.”
His voice was so loud in Mustang’s memory that it was practically audible. Mustang’s mouth twitched slightly at the corners with the recognition, almost spreading into a smile.
The Sergeant was clothed simply in a regulation undershirt, his blanket pulled up to his waist. The small lantern beside him was turned down low, flickering and sending wild shadows over his body. When he reached up to flick one of the pages of the pamphlet he was reading, his arm obscured the faint light completely. He shifted, turning to his side, and laid his booklet on the cot beside his face.
It occurred to Mustang somewhere in the back of his mind that spying on one of his soldiers was way beyond the boundaries of appropriate conduct for a superior officer, and that he should leave right this second. Instead, he sank slowly to his knees, careful not to make a sound, until he was hidden from view of the other tents by the shadows and peered back through the flap at Havoc.
Of course it was wildly inappropriate, but watching Havoc made him feel more at peace than he had in… in quite some time.
Havoc ran a hand backwards through his hair before taking the remains of the cigarette that had been dangling from his lips and snuffing it out on the dirt floor beneath him. He sighed, shifted a little, and raked his fingers through his hair again. Sighing again, he slid his hand down over his face, running the pads of his fingers over his closed eyelids, across his cheeks and down his chin, stopping to bite down lightly on the tip of his little finger. He nibbled at the nail for a moment before closing his lips over it and sucking it lightly.
Mustang’s brow furrowed, and he felt a slight heat rush over his cheeks. His eyes locked on the Sergeant’s lips, on the way they played over the skin of his finger. When Havoc slid the tip of a second finger into his mouth, the heat moved to the pit of Mustang’s stomach.
Suddenly, the blond’s eyes snapped open, and Mustang, sure he was caught, froze, the pleasant warmth in his stomach vanishing at the prospect of the coming confrontation.
However, the Sergeant’s eyes passed smoothly over the flap of the tent, coming to rest on the empty cot across from him. The soldier’s blue eyes flicked back and forth from his own body to the empty bed, before he seemed assured that his tent mate was nowhere nearby and closed his eyes again. He flipped over onto his back in a sudden, smooth motion that made the dog tags around his neck clank together and send bright flashes of reflected lantern light across the roof of the tent.
The fingers of his right hand found their way back to his mouth, while his left slowly stroked down his neck, across his chest, stopping for a moment to tease at a nipple, visibly hard under the thin cotton of his undershirt. Continuing, he slid his hand under the green blanket at his waist. His shoulders tensed, and the faintest sound of a whimper emerged from around the fingers still in his mouth.
Outside, Mustang’s heart pounded, his eyes wide. His mind raced—you need to leave, you can’t watch him do this, leave, leave now, leave now— as the heat in his stomach traveled lower and he felt the heaviness in his cock that marked the beginning of an erection.
He rose to his haunches, intending to do just that, to leave Havoc in privacy, when the blond kicked the rough fabric of the blanket away, revealing his hand running back and forth over an impressive bulge in his shorts.
Unable to look away, Mustang merely shifted, staring through the flap as Havoc took his fingers from his lips, running them down his neck and leaving a trail of moisture that glinted in the flickering lamplight, and tugged his boxers down, leaving them and his blanket gathered around his upper thighs.
His cock rose in a slight upward curve from a patch of darker gold hair, huge and hard and flushed dark with arousal. Extending one finger, trembling slightly if the shadow it cast was any indication, Havoc traced the lines of veins down to his balls, stroked them, and toyed with the loose skin at their base before gently cupping them. He sighed, a deep, soft sound, and brought his finger upwards again, retracing its previous path and noticeably shaking now. The gasp that wrenched itself from his lips as he encircled his erection with his hand mirrored the one Mustang suddenly had to bite back.
Havoc pumped himself slowly, his face tensing, and he bit down onto his lower lip. He stroked the tip with the fingers on his other hand, still moist from his mouth, and arched up, biting harder on his lip but not quite containing a sudden whimper of pleasure.
By now, Mustang’s own erection was throbbing in the confines of his pants. He slid the zipper on his fly halfway down, wincing at the slight noise it made, in an effort to relieve some of the pressure. His cock only throbbed more insistently at the slight touch, and the sudden sight of Havoc bucking his hips upward did very little to help matters either.
The stiff canvas of the cot groaned as Havoc’s speed increased, not quite loud enough to cover the solder’s panting gasps of breath, try as he might to keep quiet. Mustang breathed deeply at the sight, trying to calm himself, and instead half choked in the effort to hold back a moan as he caught the musky, sweaty smell of Havoc’s arousal.
Mustang pressed his face closer, his nose almost touching the canvas in an unconscious effort to move closer to the soldier. Precum gleamed at the tip of Havoc’s straining hard-on, and a small drop leaked down, striping the head of his cock with a bright glint of lantern light, and he reached up with his thumb to stroke over the tip, running his other hand over his thighs as he thrust upward. The muscles of his legs tensed and he threw his head back, uttering a short, growling noise that made Mustang gasp so loudly that had Havoc not been utterly lost in his own fantasy, the Lieutenant Colonel would’ve been caught for sure.
Pressing a firm hand over his mouth, Mustang’s breath beat against his palm in time with his throbbing heart in his desperate attempt to keep silent. He slid his zipper the rest of the way down, hoping the cool air would ease some of the heat. Instead, his cock only throbbed harder.
Havoc whimpered again, pumping himself harder, using the slickness of his precum to lubricate his hand, making it slide easier. He groaned, pulling his undershirt aside and running his free hand over his chest.
“God,” Havoc moaned in a loud whisper, almost begging, and for a minute, Roy was almost overpowered by the urge to enter the tent, to close his fist over Havoc’s, lie on top of him, kiss him hard and sloppy and hungry, to lick his erection slick and slide himself over it, to ride him hard and fast and-
Mustang gasped, his fantasy so clear that he could practically feel Havoc beneath him. His vision blurred, and his cock throbbed so hard he thought he might actually be coming, however impossible that seemed. He wasn’t, but he did find himself unable to resist any longer and closed his fist around his straining erection.
“God, yes, ahh…” Havoc muttered, stroking himself harder, faster, eyes opening to watch his hand on his cock. He thumbed at one nipple as he whimpered.
“Yes…” Roy whispered under his breath, drinking the sight of the man before him hovering so near the edge. “Oh, Havoc… Havoc… oh, God, Havoc… Havoc…” He whispered it, over and over, as his hand sped along his cock.
Havoc was close, very close, and he raised his hand to his mouth, biting down on his fist as he thrust faster, hips rolling upward as his hand moved down, until even his fist couldn’t block all the sound of his moans.
“Ahh,” Havoc gasped, muffled around his fist, and at his voice Mustang went over the edge, shaking and biting his lips hard enough to taste blood in his effort not to scream the soldier’s name for the entire camp to hear. His muscles screamed with tenseness as he came, streaking his hand and the dust in front of Havoc’s tent.
His eyes opened, blurred slightly with his orgasm, just in time to watch Havoc tense, his muscles straining, throw his head back and sob out a stream of nonsensical syllables muffled only slightly by his fist and come, hard, fist still pumping as he shot all over his stomach and hand.
Roy took a deep breath, trying to calm himself as Havoc’s hand dropped to his side. The blond’s eyes closed, and he lay for a moment in complete relaxation. Finally he stirred, took a towel from a small stack of his belongings beside his cot, and smeared his cum away from his belly before righting his clothes and pulling his blanket up to his chin, leaving tips of his socks visible—he was a few inches too tall for the cot. He dropped the towel and the booklet he’d been looking at earlier on the ground and sleepily doused the wick of the lantern, plunging his tent into darkness.
For a moment, Roy remained kneeling, still hypnotized by what he’d just seen. Finally the sound of voices in the far distance brought him back to himself and he stood, albeit shakily, and tucked himself back into his pants. He wiped his hand on a small patch of grass and kicked dust over the streaks of semen by the tent flap. He stretched, feeling both achy and sated, and began to walk. He took the longer route back to his tent to ensure the unlikelihood of him meeting anyone.
He felt, for the first time in weeks, that he might rest easy that night.
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