The Next Best Thing
folder
Fullmetal Alchemist › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
12
Views:
2,342
Reviews:
16
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Fullmetal Alchemist › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
12
Views:
2,342
Reviews:
16
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Full Metal Alchemist, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
The Next Best Thing
Disclaimer- characters and whatnot do not belong to me. they belong to Square Enix and Arikawa. i make no profit from this. i am merely borrowing them for a wee bit.
This was originally a challenge issued by hallidae on lj. here there be not so nice sex and all manner of twisted psychology. if this is not your gig, please do not read. -fireun
In a perfect, sane world, there were limits to which a man would go in order to achieve his goals, in order to placate his own particular drives.
In a perfect world.
It was an unfortunate thing that perfect worlds failed to exist outside of the writings of poets, philosophers, and idealistic heads of state. In a perfect world it would be Roy Mustang kneeling at his feet, forced face to the ground by a too short chain around his neck, dressed in nothing else. It was the perfect scenario, an ideal humiliation for an inappropriately cocky man.
Seeing as that particular man was currently out of reach, Frank Archer went for the next best thing. If one could not have Mustang on a leash, Mustang’s favorite dog would have to do.
It was easy, pleasantly so, to envision the look of sheer outrage on Mustang’s face were he to witness his subordinate brought so low, bare flesh marked from nail and lash, streaked with dried blood…it was a delightful feast for the eye, Mustang’s precious Lieutenant spread against the floor, hips tied upright, ass accessible should Archer decide to use him again.
And use him he would. Just as soon as he was done enjoying the view. It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t any sort of sensual pleasure; it was unbridled possessive rage. He hated the adoration in Havoc’s eyes when he looked at Mustang, the warmth in his voice as he spoke the damn man’s name. It irritated him. It angered him.
It made him want to make Havoc scream.
“Would you like a smoke?” Archer crooned, moving to kneel beside Havoc’s head. Without waiting for any manner of reply he lit one of Havoc’s cigarettes and, ignoring the snarl of pain, pressed it against the sensitive spot beneath Havoc’s left ear. He held it there, breathing in the faint smell of smoldering flesh for a long moment, an almost blissful look on his face. The cigarette snuffed itself out against shortly after. Archer, considering himself a courteous man if nothing else, relit the cigarette and attempted to settle it against Havoc’s lips. Havoc did his feeble best to bite at his tormentor’s fingers.
“My, my, that was rather rude now wasn’t it?” Archer clucked his tongue disapprovingly, reaching for his belt.
Havoc caught the motion and began to struggle frantically against the chains holding him down. “Gahhh….no!”
Thwack.
Havoc’s protestations altered to a hiss of pain as a new welt was opened across his back, a second swiftly followed, splitting the flesh of his already abused ass.
There were ways to break a man that decent minds never considered, never acknowledged.
Pathological minds, those that were fixated and obsessed, that saw a slight in every action and perceived slander in every word, those were the ones that stumbled through the depths of the mind, knew each and every corner, knew the weak parts and used them to their satisfaction.
Thus it was with a perfectly serene satisfaction that Archer ran possessive hands along the curve of Havoc’s bloodied ass, took a moment to appreciate the perfection with which he had bound the man, and lowered his now belt-less pants.
Men like Havoc were easy to break. They were the amiable ones, the ones who went out of their way to help people out. It shattered their worldview when another person was wantonly, undeservedly cruel. It took everything they knew and shattered it. Havoc emitted a desperate, animal cry as Archer entered him for the third time that evening, taking no time to prepare, to make it any easier on the bound man. Gasping, gulping sobbing followed, bursting out of Havoc with each of Archers thrusts.
It was easy for Archer to relish the sounds of pain, the desperate sobbing. It would make Mustang so angry…it would hurt Mustang so much to see his beloved Havoc used like this, so abused.
And, until the opportunity presented itself in which Archer could destroy Mustang himself that was all he needed. Almost lovingly he lapped at a bit of blood oozing from a reopened tear on Havocs back as he came with one last particularly enthusiastic thrust. That bizarre tenderness on top of brutality did Havoc in. incoherent sobbing filled the new silence of the room as Archer removed himself and redid his pants, a satisfied smile on his face.
Oh, but Mustang would hurt if he saw this...
This was originally a challenge issued by hallidae on lj. here there be not so nice sex and all manner of twisted psychology. if this is not your gig, please do not read. -fireun
In a perfect, sane world, there were limits to which a man would go in order to achieve his goals, in order to placate his own particular drives.
In a perfect world.
It was an unfortunate thing that perfect worlds failed to exist outside of the writings of poets, philosophers, and idealistic heads of state. In a perfect world it would be Roy Mustang kneeling at his feet, forced face to the ground by a too short chain around his neck, dressed in nothing else. It was the perfect scenario, an ideal humiliation for an inappropriately cocky man.
Seeing as that particular man was currently out of reach, Frank Archer went for the next best thing. If one could not have Mustang on a leash, Mustang’s favorite dog would have to do.
It was easy, pleasantly so, to envision the look of sheer outrage on Mustang’s face were he to witness his subordinate brought so low, bare flesh marked from nail and lash, streaked with dried blood…it was a delightful feast for the eye, Mustang’s precious Lieutenant spread against the floor, hips tied upright, ass accessible should Archer decide to use him again.
And use him he would. Just as soon as he was done enjoying the view. It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t any sort of sensual pleasure; it was unbridled possessive rage. He hated the adoration in Havoc’s eyes when he looked at Mustang, the warmth in his voice as he spoke the damn man’s name. It irritated him. It angered him.
It made him want to make Havoc scream.
“Would you like a smoke?” Archer crooned, moving to kneel beside Havoc’s head. Without waiting for any manner of reply he lit one of Havoc’s cigarettes and, ignoring the snarl of pain, pressed it against the sensitive spot beneath Havoc’s left ear. He held it there, breathing in the faint smell of smoldering flesh for a long moment, an almost blissful look on his face. The cigarette snuffed itself out against shortly after. Archer, considering himself a courteous man if nothing else, relit the cigarette and attempted to settle it against Havoc’s lips. Havoc did his feeble best to bite at his tormentor’s fingers.
“My, my, that was rather rude now wasn’t it?” Archer clucked his tongue disapprovingly, reaching for his belt.
Havoc caught the motion and began to struggle frantically against the chains holding him down. “Gahhh….no!”
Thwack.
Havoc’s protestations altered to a hiss of pain as a new welt was opened across his back, a second swiftly followed, splitting the flesh of his already abused ass.
There were ways to break a man that decent minds never considered, never acknowledged.
Pathological minds, those that were fixated and obsessed, that saw a slight in every action and perceived slander in every word, those were the ones that stumbled through the depths of the mind, knew each and every corner, knew the weak parts and used them to their satisfaction.
Thus it was with a perfectly serene satisfaction that Archer ran possessive hands along the curve of Havoc’s bloodied ass, took a moment to appreciate the perfection with which he had bound the man, and lowered his now belt-less pants.
Men like Havoc were easy to break. They were the amiable ones, the ones who went out of their way to help people out. It shattered their worldview when another person was wantonly, undeservedly cruel. It took everything they knew and shattered it. Havoc emitted a desperate, animal cry as Archer entered him for the third time that evening, taking no time to prepare, to make it any easier on the bound man. Gasping, gulping sobbing followed, bursting out of Havoc with each of Archers thrusts.
It was easy for Archer to relish the sounds of pain, the desperate sobbing. It would make Mustang so angry…it would hurt Mustang so much to see his beloved Havoc used like this, so abused.
And, until the opportunity presented itself in which Archer could destroy Mustang himself that was all he needed. Almost lovingly he lapped at a bit of blood oozing from a reopened tear on Havocs back as he came with one last particularly enthusiastic thrust. That bizarre tenderness on top of brutality did Havoc in. incoherent sobbing filled the new silence of the room as Archer removed himself and redid his pants, a satisfied smile on his face.
Oh, but Mustang would hurt if he saw this...