To Serve

Disclaimer: Arakawa Hiromu’s. Bandai’s. Square-Enix’s. Not mine.

Hawkeye side

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It isn’t the first time she has slid down between them on this couch, but as always she secretly wonders if it will be the last – that someone will come to their senses, and end this insanity with a word or a fistfight. A cloud of alcohol wafts against her face, her lover’s breath heavy and poisonous against her cheek, and she wrinkles her nose and concentrates on sinking down into the sofa.

“Whiskey?”

“Fuck you.” Edward slurs, half slumped across her body, eyes still blurrily trying to focus on the glass in his hand. He isn’t as drunk as he’s pretending to be, not on two short shots of vodka, but she’s sitting beside them and THAT makes all the difference. Roy is drunker too, and he’s pouring her another shot with eyes that assure neither of them will be finishing their drinks until Edward is long gone, if ever at all. She wiggles a bit and lets him lean closer to the smaller blonde, who is tracing lazy circles over her nipple with the butt of his shot glass.

Roy nudges the other man with the bottle he’s holding and Riza shivers, because Edward is glaring back now and oh god is there power, a white-hot electricity in the spaces between them. It makes all the little hairs on the back of her neck raise, and she is worried because (as always) she is trapped between two live wires, oppositely charged and just waiting to explode.

“Said I don’ wan’ that fucking stuff!” Edward growls and knocks the Old Standard backwards, onto the floor. Riza wails at the demise of her area rug but Roy has already closed the distance with his arm, completing the circuit with a hand on Ed’s wrist. They are hot wired together now, and for better or for worse it will not – cannot – stop tonight.

Edward jerks at the contact and his drink crashes down into her lap; Riza squirms and tries to clean it up as best she can with one of the towels waiting on the floor. The couch she has already carpeted with a “dust cover”; the hardwood floor is much more vulnerable. It hurts just that much more that her lover didn’t even bother to ask about the towels this time; just harrumphed and nodded when she said she was having Edward over for drinks. Even if he had though, the answer would still be ridiculous. They won’t do it in a bed, so she has to use towels. How much stupider could it get?

“Lemme go.” Edward is whining into her ear, though his motions are very much not the struggles of someone who is upset about being caught. “Goddammit, Colonel…”

“Brigadier-General” Both she and her lover correct at the same time, because Edward is more than old enough to know better, and because otherwise it would make this just that much more wrong. Edward squirms impatiently, and she can already feel his erection pressing into her hip – a good sign, not too much, or he wouldn’t be able to sustain it. He clutches desperately at her left breast with his free hand, as if squeezing it will somehow keep him safe. She hisses and bucks, lets them both feel the result of it, and tries not to think about the stickiness of the vodka evaporating on her thighs, or the unpleasant heat of her lover’s drunken body. Edward is sweating like a race horse, too, and it is like being trapped within a living jungle – limbs like vines, hair like spiderwebs, and the overall impression of hot, oppressive humidity.

Roy’s breathing increases triple-fold as he watches his former subordinate rubbing against her leg, and his eyes are large and dilated, absorbing everything. He drops his other hand to her right breast and twists, making her cry out in harsh pants that Edward feels compelled to prolong. Her, yes, she has convince them it is about her… Roy shudders in the aftermath of her gyrations and drops Edward’s hand, slips his instead to the crevice of her legs.

Edward is right behind him, dragging his new, soft human fingers along the curve of her belly, and oh god they are kissing her, each nibbling along a different stretch of exposed skin, competing for noises and squirming and whoa. Roy’s flat lips have found a patch beneath her chin that she particularly likes, and she doesn’t have to fake enthusiasm for that one. It might almost be bearable if he can make her forget what it is they are doing, and she shuts her eyes gladly and lets his tongue drive her crazy.

Edward, too, is trying his damndest, though his haphazard nibbling is ticklish at best. Sometimes Riza wonders how experienced he really is, if they were actually his first (god, is that even possible? Isn’t that more like first and second at the same time?). He pulls his head up to give her lover that cocky grin, and oh god there it is again, that unkindled fire that rages between them, and she’s pushed aside in a flash-powder second. Roy redoubles his efforts and she moans whole-heartedly, though it’s obvious that he is far more focused on Edward, and the young man fights back with a tug to her earlobe. Her lover is winning (really, Edward should just give up and go away) but she has to be gracious and let this continue. It isn’t Edward’s fault that he’s working with a handicap. She shudders a little, at the thought of him actually having enough time to become proficient with her.

Edward misinterprets her shaking for a successful nip and elbows her lover mockingly, nearly tips sideways off the couch as he does so. Motion blurs, from the alcohol, and Roy fights back with a shoulder butt that makes the young man hiss. They can’t really be this drunk, she knows, but they certainly make a wonderful show of it. They are both practically sitting in her lap now, drawing closer, and the noise level jumps up to be audible, snaps and crackles til the sound drives her insane. How the hell can’t they hear it, they’re right there inside of it!? She sucks on her lip, squeezes her eyes shut, and licks at Edward’s face.

And her lover reacts, as he is wont to do, with a soft, eager growling – not jealousy, she regrets, but whole-hearted interest. Edward squirms against her and tries to reciprocate, turning his lips toward hers as if he actually expects to catch them. She ducks away slyly but he persists, leaving her no choice but to counter-attack and bite along his neckline. He hisses and paws at her chest like an excited, happy kitten – no, lion, his fingers are curling and twisting, and there is nothing soft or gentle about his grip when he’s so over-stimulated. She forgets sometimes, just how strong Edward is despite his short stature; he may not be Armstrong but he’s wiry and leaves bruises. Roy runs a hand down her side and encourages her wriggling, presses his own erection into her leg. They are close, it is coming, and she slumps down and shoves at them until they’re touching, face to face.

Edward blinks for a second as his prey scoots away, then turns to attack the next closest target – her lover’s exposed throat, which he gives up willingly. And – oh yes – there it is, that smoldering half-second when Roy is aware just exactly what is happening—he’s perfectly in control of himself. She knows he has to be. A man can’t look both that shocked and happy without understanding the reason for it, and it’s a knife in her heart deeper than any other.

Still.

It is beautiful.

It is beautiful in a way that she and her lover alone can never be, nothing close to the way either of them have ever looked when it’s just the two of them; beautiful in the way her lover comes alive and shoves the younger man backward away from him, beautiful in the way his eyes are absolutely on fire. He is never this violent with her, always offers himself willingly, and it sends a hot tingle down through her stomach to see him wrestling for control against this usurper. He only submits to her, never to Edward, and she almost wants to crow as they rise up on their knees and start clawing off each other’s clothing. The air is thick with their scents, two musky and frustrated wild beasts, and she sees again that they are going to bend down and fight for her, because it is yet more territory that they have to contend.

She opens her arms, and lets them fall, doesn’t mind that they are still locked mouth and mouth; her own jealousy is burned away in the face of what they possess. So childish, really, that they can’t consider anything outside their need to be superior over the other, even in their feelings for each other. She kisses them both (Roy first), and they whimper in unison, shivering into her like she’s the only source of heat left in the world. And what do you know, she is hot - they are nothing compared to how drenched her own skin is. A soft groan escapes her lips as Edward shifts against her chest, and she dimly registers that they are both so, so heavy; so incredibly heavy. Her lover is kissing at her shoulder blade again and she shoves him up with her shoulder, forces her right arm out and down toward his pants. He tears himself away almost immediately when she touches him, and Edward plasters himself to that exposed face as soon as he’s got the opening. She reaches for him too, and bides him rise up on his knees until the angle is bearable; her hand on his groin might be enough to send him through the ceiling.

They grasp at each other desperately and shove into her hands, and it is only her physical presence between their lower halves that keep them from wrapping up completely and becoming a single creature. Roy isn’t really wearing his pants anymore and she can feel him completely, the heavy weight of him beneath his boxers; Edward is still half-clothed but his control is slipping – any minute now he’ll be ripping his own trousers off. She thinks one step ahead of him and guides Roy’s hand down to them, starts the button through the loop with her lover’s fingers. He yanks too hard and actually rips it off, probably angry at the loss of contact; Edward jumps under this perceived assault and fights back with a yank to Roy’s boxers, leaving both of them exposed and dripping. God, it’s hot, and her legs are aching so much for them and because of them, and she’s jealous again but it doesn’t matter because they’re touching each other, riding each other’s hands like their lives depend on it. So tense, they’re both shaking with the force of it… Roy’s got his head back and Edward’s got his eyes closed, and she wraps her arms around them and holds them close until they come.

Her lover collapses first, sinking down next to her with the most perfect expression of stunned pleasure she has ever seen, and she can almost forgive herself for thinking they are beautiful – even Edward, whose hair is loose and obscuring his sated smirk. It is his messy hand on her thigh, actually, and she needs to reach him a towel—and Roy’s hand snaking beneath her skirt and ruining it, and oh god they are both touching her, teasing places she was sure they’d forgotten about, and someone’s teeth are at her throat, and it is no time at all until the pleasure explodes out into a hot spike, until there is no room for anger or any kind of feeling at all.

Some billions of years later, it is finally over. Edward makes a soft noise and burrows into her side, and Roy withdraws his hand so he can lay his arm across her lap. They are both sleepy and satisfied, and she knows from experience that they will not stir if she tries to get up, not even if she has to shove one of them onto the floor. Neither will they remember this, in the morning, no matter how badly she’s concealed the evidence…though her lover won’t quite meet Edward’s eyes, and Edward won’t quite look at either of them when he slinks out the door. She really should get up, start getting some towels…

She looks down at herself, down at both of her lovers, and wonders when it was she stopped being able to cry.