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Entry tags:
- 10_prompts,
- fic,
- fma,
- yaoi
Fic - "Wait"
Title: Wait
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raja815
Pairing/Fandom:Jean Havoc/Roy Mustang, Fullmetal Alchemist
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 673
Warnings A little hint of drunk
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)
10_prompts, set 7, prompt #10 "Once More." The WIP folder clean out continues! Sorry for the f-list flood, but if I don't do this now I'll never get it done.
“Wait,” Mustang whispered, and Jean complied.
Halfway down the short hallway, one arm through his jacket sleeve, he stopped and stood still. Waited. For a moment there was silence, so much that he could hear the spilled whiskey dripping off the coffee table all the way from the living room.
All at once the sound of Mustang’s first footstep shattered the calm. The sound was so sudden and sharp that Jean almost fancied it solid, small and hard and brutal, a bullet fired into his back in the dim hallway.
The footsteps seemed to echo and grow, building upon themselves until they pounded in Jean’s ears. His palms went damp with sweat. His stomach spun and threatened. Out of nowhere came an absurd vision of his body as a rifle, cocked and ready, with four pounds of pull on a five-pound trigger, and the gooseflesh at his neck seemed almost to crawl with his strain.
When he finally felt Mustang’s fingers graze his shoulder the tension shattered with an almost audible crack. Heat exploded in his belly. Moisture squeaked between his fingers as his palms clenched. A short hiss of breath he wouldn’t quite let be a moan escaped his lips.
“Wait,” Mustang said again, and this time Jean felt the word against the taunt flesh at his neck, a quick burst of warm air that sent the skin at his neck tightening into riot again.
“I’m waiting, Sir,” Jean managed, though the words were tight in his throat. He took in a short breath and choked on it. All the moisture seemed to have gone from his mouth. “I’m always waiting, I…”
But that felt like too much truth, and he bit down hard, grating his teeth together. He felt a wash of nicotine craving come on the tails of an emotion very much like panic, and the muscles in his jaw fluttered in a sudden spasm while he struggled to keep his mouth from trembling.
Jean heard the drip of the spilled whiskey again. It made him remembered the admission from his tipsy mouth that had made Mustang’s eyes widen and grip slacken. The snifter in Mustang’s hand slipped, the amber liquid sloshing, glimmering in the light as it tumbled through the air. Jean turned and ran for it as the glass shattered and the liquid pooled on the tabletop, as though if he left fast enough he might unsay the stupid words, the glass would drip upward, remaking itself as if through one of the Colonel’s own alchemic transmutations, Mustang would go back to not knowing, and Jean’s dirty little secret would still be just that. No Sir, of course I don’t want you. I’m not into men. Whatever could’ve given you that idea?
The pressure of Mustang’s hand on his shoulder seemed to swell, grow, until it was the only thing in the hallway, in the house, in the whole world, and Jean felt crushed and buried. Then the pressure focused, and he was being turned.
He pivoted as smoothly as his woozy legs would allow and found himself facing his Colonel. He kept his face at its usual level, his eyesight just grazing the top of Mustang’s hair, and even that was almost too much, but then the pressure at his shoulder slid to his neck. The tension in his skin exploded as a finger pushed down, bringing his eyesight to Mustang’s. The gaze was dark, long, and close enough for Jean to notice that his Colonel’s eyes weren’t black as they seemed from afar but a very deep brown. That knowledge felt somehow much too intimate, and Jean felt his face burn and freeze all at once. He wanted to speak, but before he could catch enough breath, Mustang’s mouth quirked into a smile.
“I never knew you were so patient, Havoc,” Mustang mused, and pushed once more at Jean’s neck until his face was low enough to kiss.
Author:
raja815Pairing/Fandom:Jean Havoc/Roy Mustang, Fullmetal Alchemist
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 673
Warnings A little hint of drunk
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is © Hiromu Arakawa. I will make no capitol benefit from this.
Author's Notes: Written for
10_prompts, set 7, prompt #10 "Once More." The WIP folder clean out continues! Sorry for the f-list flood, but if I don't do this now I'll never get it done.“Wait,” Mustang whispered, and Jean complied.
Halfway down the short hallway, one arm through his jacket sleeve, he stopped and stood still. Waited. For a moment there was silence, so much that he could hear the spilled whiskey dripping off the coffee table all the way from the living room.
All at once the sound of Mustang’s first footstep shattered the calm. The sound was so sudden and sharp that Jean almost fancied it solid, small and hard and brutal, a bullet fired into his back in the dim hallway.
The footsteps seemed to echo and grow, building upon themselves until they pounded in Jean’s ears. His palms went damp with sweat. His stomach spun and threatened. Out of nowhere came an absurd vision of his body as a rifle, cocked and ready, with four pounds of pull on a five-pound trigger, and the gooseflesh at his neck seemed almost to crawl with his strain.
When he finally felt Mustang’s fingers graze his shoulder the tension shattered with an almost audible crack. Heat exploded in his belly. Moisture squeaked between his fingers as his palms clenched. A short hiss of breath he wouldn’t quite let be a moan escaped his lips.
“Wait,” Mustang said again, and this time Jean felt the word against the taunt flesh at his neck, a quick burst of warm air that sent the skin at his neck tightening into riot again.
“I’m waiting, Sir,” Jean managed, though the words were tight in his throat. He took in a short breath and choked on it. All the moisture seemed to have gone from his mouth. “I’m always waiting, I…”
But that felt like too much truth, and he bit down hard, grating his teeth together. He felt a wash of nicotine craving come on the tails of an emotion very much like panic, and the muscles in his jaw fluttered in a sudden spasm while he struggled to keep his mouth from trembling.
Jean heard the drip of the spilled whiskey again. It made him remembered the admission from his tipsy mouth that had made Mustang’s eyes widen and grip slacken. The snifter in Mustang’s hand slipped, the amber liquid sloshing, glimmering in the light as it tumbled through the air. Jean turned and ran for it as the glass shattered and the liquid pooled on the tabletop, as though if he left fast enough he might unsay the stupid words, the glass would drip upward, remaking itself as if through one of the Colonel’s own alchemic transmutations, Mustang would go back to not knowing, and Jean’s dirty little secret would still be just that. No Sir, of course I don’t want you. I’m not into men. Whatever could’ve given you that idea?
The pressure of Mustang’s hand on his shoulder seemed to swell, grow, until it was the only thing in the hallway, in the house, in the whole world, and Jean felt crushed and buried. Then the pressure focused, and he was being turned.
He pivoted as smoothly as his woozy legs would allow and found himself facing his Colonel. He kept his face at its usual level, his eyesight just grazing the top of Mustang’s hair, and even that was almost too much, but then the pressure at his shoulder slid to his neck. The tension in his skin exploded as a finger pushed down, bringing his eyesight to Mustang’s. The gaze was dark, long, and close enough for Jean to notice that his Colonel’s eyes weren’t black as they seemed from afar but a very deep brown. That knowledge felt somehow much too intimate, and Jean felt his face burn and freeze all at once. He wanted to speak, but before he could catch enough breath, Mustang’s mouth quirked into a smile.
“I never knew you were so patient, Havoc,” Mustang mused, and pushed once more at Jean’s neck until his face was low enough to kiss.