A Bad Idea (reprise)

Edward Elric, fifteen years old State Alchemist, also known as Fullmetal, slammed the door of his dorm-room shut behind him and threw the folder he was holding to the wall with all the force he was capable of. It made a disappointing splat sound and its contents gently drifted to the floor, scattering everywhere. He ground his teeth at them. Fucking, fucking hell, he hated the Military, he hated its guts and he /loathed/ the stinking, smug, fucking bastard Colonel Arse-hole. Condescending shit-head preaching to him about responsibility and regulations. What the fuck did the bastard know about it? Desk-bound slacker didn't have a clue what it was like out in the field and if he thought Ed gave a flying fuck about the rules he was even more of an idiot than he looked with his smug face and smug grin and smug dark eyes.

So what if the Military brass was paying attention to him? So what? How was that any different from any other time? He could handle whatever came his way, just as he was doing, thank you very much. It was just him and Al anyway, nobody here could be trusted. The Military was only out for their own gain, they'd squeeze him out to the last drop if he'd let them. Well, he wasn't, not gonna happen. He was the one using the Military here, he would be out as soon as he'd reached his goal and if he'd never see another uniform in his life, that would be just fine. He shook himself, limbs flying. He really didn't need this crap, he needed to focus, dammit and work on restoring Al, that was what he needed to be doing. He was going to take a shower and then hit the books, so this day wouldn't be a complete waste.

He sat down on the lower bunk to undo his boots. A tiny nagging voice in the back of his head, sounding suspiciously like Al, told him he was being grossly unfair to at least some of the Military. Mustang's clique was okay, even if they made fun of him and never showed proper respect. And, yes, alright, maybe Mustang wasn't all bad, not quite the same league as creepy Hakuro, but man, nothing in the world could make him as angry as that little superior smirk Mustang had when he tried to get a rise out of him. And he succeeded every bloody time, slimy bastard. Only good thing about getting sent on a long, boring, pointless mission was not to have to look at that bastard for weeks.

He got up, shrugged of his jacket, pulled his tank top over his head. He yanked the tie from his skewed braid, shook out his head and combed his hair with his fingers. Al was shopping and the little dorm-room had the luxury of a private shower: he could do whatever he liked for the time being. He wriggled out of his tight, leather pants and stuck his flesh hand in his boxers. When you were fifteen years old and shared your living-space with your little brother, you took the opportunity to spank the monkey whenever it presented itself. Keep the other hand away. Not too long ago it wasn't a problem, but these days there was hair down there and it /hurt/ when it snagged on his automail joints.


He wondered, sometimes, what it would be like, having sex, but it seemed complicated. It involved dating and romance and crap and there was no-one in the world he was willing to put up with that shit for. This was okay, this was /fine/, this felt good, he could keep doing this.

He could see, in his mind's eye, pale hands cupping his face, a mouth coming closer and closer to touch his lips, light first, then lingering. Dark eyes looking into his and closing as sensations arose. His eyes closed in response, rubbing his dick as it hardened under his hand. His face felt glowing hot. Oh, yeah, and the hands moved lower, sliding over his back and his chest, that was good. Too late to get into the shower, gotta do this first, the mouth in his neck and dark hair caressing his skin.

He rubbed and pulled, gently at first, and grabbed the top bunk with his right hand for support as he bit his lower lip. Maybe someone could lick your nipple, swirling around with the tip of their tongue, uh, that would feel good. He tipped his head backwards and gasped for breath, breathing faster and faster and he pulled a little harder. Fuck, good, fuck ooh, yeah, and you could put your hand in their dark hair and push their head down and they would lick along your belly, and he hissed out his breath, lower and lower, until they found your groin, and they would touch your balls, ooh, and lick them. Jolts of pleasure shivered up from his cock and down every limb, his automail leg spasmed a bit, fuckfuckfuck. And, and, then they'd lick down the length of your dick, and take it in their mouth, and suck, and that would feel fucking amazing, he could tell, gliding in and out of that smug mouth. Ah, ah, and, hot and tight and wet until you'd explode, cumming, seeing stars and flashes of light and, ooh, FUCK. He was done, panting as his cock jerked in his hand, cum wetting his boxers. He leaned into the top bunk, completely spent and for a few blissful moments just blank.

It wasn't until he was in the shower, soaping up and enjoying the pleasant buzz of afterglow when it hit him. The pale skin, the dark hair with matching eyes, the smug fucking mouth... He had been jerking of while thinking of ratbastard Mustang! His eyes grew the size of saucers while his whole body cringed. Urgh, like that was ever going to happen in a million years! Never, ever. This was just his deranged hormones going wild, nothing to do with him. He would just stop jerking off altogether and never think of this again. Right. That'd work.