Characters: Roy Mustang/Lust
Warnings: Most definately not to be read at work. Is of decent length. (3,489 words)
Notes: This is certainly the most dirty and naughty thing I've ever written.
Summary: Roy receives a surprise visit.
Roy pulled the strap that held his robe closed tighter, cinching the soft white material against his waist, one hand rising to cover the last half of his yawn. Leaning over the tub’s edge, he pulled up on the drain and watched the water spin away for a few seconds before turning to dry his hand on the small towel hanging by the sink. Pulling it off its bar, he brought it up to rub vigorously at his damp hair, trying to remove as much water as possible. He was not one for wet hair or the feeling, in general.
His feet padded against the floor as he crossed into and down the hall, the slapping kept to a minimum but the vibrations still feeling strange against his soles. He walked through the doorway of the bedroom and gave a last rub of his hair, one hand falling away. The free hand traced the edge of the uniform coat, laid out atop the pants upon his bed. The hand in the towel stilled as he noticed the watch was not where he left it. In fact, he didn’t see it at all.
The jacket was lifted up to search beneath it. The arm fell from his head, towel dropping to the mattress as he brought the other hand into it. The jacket was lifted completely up; still no sign of it. He knew he put the damned thing out. He always included it. It was for this exact reason that he laid out his clothes beforehand. Searching for lost articles detracted from his grooming time and that had severe consequences. He gave the jacket a light shake after checking its pockets and, holding it off to the side, right hand moving to lift the pants-
The jacket dropped to the bed, his efforts to keep from wrinkling it wasted as it landed in a crumpled heap along with what he’d managed to lift of the pants. Both arms flew into action reflexively, hands going to his neck and fingers grasping at it, at the familiar and sought after chain he’d thought relatively delicate. Obviously, he’d been ‘relatively’ wrong. He emitted a choked cough, precious non-recaptureable oxygen escaping as he stumbled backwards into a cold soft body, both the result of a tighter pull on the chain.
His attacker shifted and there was sensation of the shivering kind as breath hovered over his ear, lips brushing against it every few syllables. “Uh uh,” the pleasant voice sighed, “it’s not good for you to struggle. It can have a decidedly…negative impact on your health, if you know what I mean.” The smile could be felt even when her lips weren’t against him.
Another pull, he following to keep his precious head on his body and his captor, obviously female, rose against him. Continuous pressure was pulling at his neck in a downward motion and he slid only slowly enough to keep from falling and quickly enough to keep from being asphyxiated. The body behind rolled against him at the descent and combined with the gradually decreasing oxygen intake to make him nauseous. He’d tried to throw back a hand, to maybe break her hold but had met with inhuman resistance. As a result his hand was now held prisoner in his captor’s once free limb and the chain drastically tightened; punishment. There had been no chastisement, but he’d been duly discouraged. He was getting dizzy and it was hard to focus his sight. Any much longer and he’d lose consciousness.
He was mostly laying on the floor at this point, his upper body in a now-kneeling lap and his head cushioned by a rather ample bosom. His hand was released but she directed it to his neck, brushing it against the chain before setting it on his neck with a little pat. Her hand then finger-tipped over the exposed ridge of his trachea, tapered digits bowing under the fabric as it reached the dip of the crossed robe halves, separating them. Cool air kissed the hot skin of his chest and he hissed as much as the chain would allow, hands yanking again and failing.
The fingers moved on, never stopping, trailing ever farther and not even pausing as they danced over the belt. They dipped once again and followed the break in cloth and subsequently the central line of the abdominals. Her fingers ceased their single-filed walking and fanned out at the thickening of fine hairs, tracking the new trail. Her relish at his intake of breath was apparent, the pace slowing to torture him further in recreation. The fingers curled into the newly reached mass of hair, gentle fistings eliciting a strained and most reluctant grunt that was softened by the compression of an airway.
“Aaahh,” she breathed, warm breath moving the hair over his eyes and moist air filtering through to his forehead. “Mm. Feels good, doesn’t it.” The hair was released and the hand made the useless gesture of trying to smooth it back out, her gentle pats causing him some dire strife. And when her motions seemed to be futile, she instead ruffled them back into place, the tips of those tapered fingers running a tad past leisurely across his skin reflexively causing his middle to clench.
Plush lips were pulled tighter across the fine face as they reacted to his jerk, pleased. The hand flattened on the lower portion of his abdomen, palm down and fingers spread, and she slid it along still slightly moist skin into the hair, a combing pass at an excruciating rate. She only brought her hand to a rest when he was between her index and middle fingers, completely nestled in the rounded corner of her knuckles.
He fought at that contact, a sharp and violent struggle against the chain and pressure which held him fast. While not entirely unexpected, it had been sudden. But she had been prepared for it in the way of a planned control mechanism, force. A sharp downward jerk was given to the watch, but he continued to fight against it, obviously upset at the violation. Oh, if only he knew the one to come.
The two fingers squeezed at his base, hard, and he was immediately subdued. “Now, now,” came the delicious purr. “Keep that up and I’ll turn you into a gelding.” Her voice had turned decidedly cold as her suddenly sharp fingers repeatedly scissored against him to illustrate her point. “I’m sure you wish to preserve some of your future, hmm?” She smiled sinisterly to herself, wondering what little visions – what little families - running through his head were in danger of disappearing. The chain was constricted once more.
“Let’s continue, shall we?” And the smile evolved into a grin. Her captive’s head was thrown to the side in single rigid motion, neither a nod nor a shake, and his hands fell from the chain to clench into the material of the robe. She delighted in his frustration, feeling the clenched jaw, its grimace, and the squeezed eyes she knew to be there through the tension in the chain. How she loved strong men duly incapacitated!
“Mmm, oh, my,” she laughed, his right most testis between her thumb and forefinger and undergoing a circular rub, stomach once again contracting. Her fingers first rolled around under both in a loose cupping before going back, treading closely and sweeping lightly over the hair in a tickling manner. She let her fingers flow as they would, eyes fluttering shut as they crested the ball of the scrotum and passively pooled in the valley following. Moving on to bank at his base, they languidly wrapped around him and he emitted a ragged and grunt-ish sigh.
Her chin rolled against the top of his head as she tilted it in emotion, breath passing outwards in a heavy quiet exhale. Her thumb roamed up and down what was cradled in her palm, feeling and criticizing as if it were the handle of a gun being fitted, considered for use. She wanted to see what she was doing, wanted to see that which she held, and she made motion to flip the now annoying flap of cotton away.
“Lust…” came the worried and muffled childlike warble.
She halted, not withdrawing her limb, and looked over to the window at Gluttony half sitting in it, finger in his mouth. “Yes, Gluttony?” She tried to keep her voice neutral, void of the slight irritation she felt.
“The bird. If it came…” his tone mostly unchanged but only carrying a more apologetic tint.
Her lips pressed into a line as she gave a reflexive tug and additional increment on the watch’s chain, eyes looking downward in thought. A sigh, her beautiful captive’s tensing as the situation dawned on him belatedly coming to her distracted notice.
‘Guess the game’s over,’ she pouted inwardly. But one more feel-up for the road.
“Alright, Gluttony, we’ll leave in a minute,” she consented, focusing on her hand, what was in it. This time, her fingers closed about him, encasing him within and holding him much like she would some kitchen utensil, a knife, maybe. She slid it forwards, downwards – she wasn’t really sure what to call it nor did she particularly care – along the span, thumb indexing the wrinkles and veins they crossed. She kept her eyes closed, content this time to let the mental image she was modifying pacify her. Next time, she would make the time to strip him, at the very least of the offending area, and record a true visual image. Oh, what she would give to feel those veins when erect.
But she let her hand continue, relishing the feel of the movement against her skin, pausing with profound interest at a significant thick fold encountered. A huff of amusement was issued as she fingered it over and over. Why was she really not that surprised he didn’t follow “Western” traditions? She licked her lips, noting she’d have to experiment with that particular facet later before proceeding farther. Upon reaching the end, she brushed the pad of her thumb over it once, twice, and again just for an extra little jerk to accommodate the other two he’d given at the first couple of passes.
The palm dropped away and only her thumb and first two fingers supported him. The thumb and middle were placed at opposite sides, a little ways from the head, where they applied gentle pressure to that between them, sliding a bit down. The index she had saved for the newly exposed head and she started on it in small slow circles around the sensitive tip, widening and quickening them, erratically switching paces to play against the irregular pants she recently noticed him expelling.
Speaking of that, she pulled her head up just enough so that her downward eyesight could observe his face. Given the color of his lips, she was undecided as to what was causing those rapid pants. She was inclined to label them something more akin to gasps. She would tighten it no more but she wouldn’t relax it either, for it would surely be perceived as an opening. Instead, her cheek was brought to rest upon his brow, thumb and fingers traveling back to his base and venturing forth to the tip, repeating; each time the same speed, each time a little less requiring her support with a little less distance to a little more resistance against her pressuring fingertips, and a little wider her smile. The base was hers.
There was a knock. “Colonel?” Another pass along the progressively firming organ. “Colonel, are you there?” Was that slight worry warring over annoyance she heard? She was not unaware of how setback she must have caused his schedule to be.
Her restraining hand registered an increase in tension as he drew a deeper breath, choking out a respectably audible if wavering acknowledgement bordering on a cry. “Hawk-eye!” Unfortunately, the bird heard it.
There came another noise at the door, much louder, much more forceful. It was quickly followed by another heavily thudding wham.
“Lust,” Gluttony fretted.
“I know, Gluttony. I know.” She let her hand work, claiming more ground.
There was a racket and a whoosh of air and presence as the lieutenant burst through, pistol drawn and pointed towards the floor to prevent a harmful misfire, body catching the door as it rebounded off the entryway wall. Narrowed eyes quickly swept the first room, but widened upon making contact with the sight directly down the hall to where she held a captive colonel in a most precarious position. Needless to say, the gun was aimed on her with speed.
“Lust!” Gluttony’s now frantic warning came, he torn between fully entering through the window or dropping off on the other side. She brought her eyes to meet the sharpshooter’s, hand closing around her treasure as she slid it back to the captured base, flowing through the valley and cresting once more to broadly pinch his testis. There was no way the subordinate could see exactly what was happening underneath with the robe blanketing them so, but she knew it couldn’t be anything terribly good with an enemy hand buried where it was.
Fading echoes brought seconds of silence. Hawkeye kept her gun trained, carefully watching blood trickle from the snapped back forehead and light reflecting off the whites of wide-lidded eyes. But her colonel did not, could still not, move.
“Impressive shot, lieutenant,” Lust said, righting her head and giving a small shake to dislodge the trailing effects of death and rebirth. “But you’ll have to do much better than that, and that is something you are incapable of,” she focused a wicked smile down the hall.
A short series of gunshots followed as Hawkeye emptied her clip. Lust once again righted her head, furrowing her brow to feel another hole almost completely overlapping the first and rolled her shoulders, assisting her body as it worked to purge the slugs. “As I said.” Rapid clicking as the magazine was discharged and a full clip inserted, chamber loaded, and aimed.
“Stop!” Lust warned, her hand making a sickeningly fast motion to emerge from beneath the fabric, but there was something bizarre about it. It hovered above him in the air yet her index finger was still underneath, poised against the testicle it had previously been molesting. “Annoy me again and I take his pride,” the warm hiss came. The lieutenant held her position but made no move to jeopardize her commander.
Lust gave a quick glance to the man in her lap before watching the dangerous adversary. She kept a solid grip on the alchemist’s watch and a steady position over his genitals and slowly slid out from under him. She kept low to the ground to prevent an untimely release. Bringing the lengthened and pointed finger slowly up his torso, she let it rest alongside his neck, silently threatening action against his jugular. Blast. He’d almost been hers.
“Gluttony,” she spoke across to him. “Go outside.” She listened for the tell-tale sounds of his safe departure, watching with amused delight as the woman before hers eyes widen at the realization of there having been another party inside. She did not miss the cursory glance around the rooms the sniper made.
“Well, now, lieutenant,” she said conversationally, “I’ll be leaving, now.” She rose slowly, keeping her gaze on the gun and hand on the watch as long as possible. She slowly loosened the chain before letting it drop away altogether, keeping her finger against his neck as she backed away. When she was close enough, she made a dash for the window and was out and gone before the thudding of boots down the hall and to the window reached her ears. She was not there to see the blonde positioned at the window sill checking the vicinity.
Quick steps across the floor, a clatter as the gun fell and a thump as she dropped to her knees beside a gasping Roy Mustang. Her hands went to a shoulder and his back, helping him sit against the wall. “Are you alright, sir?”
The blue was fading from his lips and she could see it do the same from his fingertips as he gingerly touched his throat. It was horribly imprinted with violently red fine chain links and he gently brushed over them, coughing causing them to jump up into the hesitant hand. His eyes fell closed as he let his breath be caught and his oxygen replenished. His voice was raw when he responded, “Yes.”
Her hands were still resting at his shoulders and she shot an evaluative look at the window. She turned her focus back on him and swept her gaze over his pained but easing face, noticing his still damp hair by how it stuck together at his scalp. It was then that she took notice of his state of dress, how the propping up of one mostly bare left leg caused the short robe to pool at his hip, hinting at a revealing to the curve of a backside.
She swallowed and removed her hands, sitting back and again gauging his face. Knowing better, she asked, “Will you be alright to dress on your own, sir?”
A nod, eyes still closed, hand still at his abused throat. She retrieved her gun and returned the unseen nod, standing. She bent over the watch in hesitance before her fingers clutched at it. Straightening, she moved to the bed and deposited it beside the uniform, rearranging the crumpled masses before leaving for the hall. She swung the door behind her but paused to speak from the slight opening before it closed, saying tenderly, “Take your time, sir.”
The click of the door…he wasn’t sure how long ago it’d happened; he’d been in a daze. His finger momentarily left his neck to squeeze at his temple and forehead, the sinuses throbbing from oxygen depravation. He released a heavy sigh, letting his hand fall away to where the arm crashed atop his bent knee and turned his gaze to an angle view of the floor, the pants of his uniform draping over the side of the bed in focus in his peripheral vision.
He was torn between what action to take on the little situation his assault had left him with. Did he give her the satisfaction of finishing what had been started or deny her by ignoring it? A hand brushed against himself through the robe. Another brush, as if his hand was testing his judgment, his resolve. His resolve was failing, apparently, as he abandoned a third pass, his fingers in favor of venturing between the folds for direct contact. When he gripped himself is when he knew it wasn’t right. Shit, he’d be looked at as a psycho if this ever made it out, not to mention Hawkeye was still in his house and she was already on the very edge. He couldn’t promise himself he’d remain soundless and any noise or grunt that did escape would bring her running. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to have someone catch him in the middle of pleasuring himself.
He sighed. The pants caught his eye again, its bright blue dye purging his thoughts and deciding for him. When in doubt, follow routine. It was over. Face the day as if nothing happened. He released himself and stood.
There had been a gentle non-insistent knock at the bedroom door and he’d offered a quiet ‘come in’. The door was opened but she only watched from the doorway. He was fiddling with his collar, rather the irritated skin beneath it, putting off constricting his throat again. His eyes fell to the watch gleaming eerily atop the bed spread, the sun’s rays much too bright for when he should be leaving and the metal reflecting blinding silver flashes upon his features, fingers moving against his throat.
“We should go, sir.”
He nodded, knowing her logic to be functioning perfectly. Too much later and there would be dire actions against him at the office, bringing questions he couldn’t, didn’t want to answer. He needed time to think on exactly what had occurred and why. He pulled his gloves on before grabbing the watch and shoving it in his pocket. He turned to follow her out to the car, unlocking and locking his front door four times while Hawkeye did three perimeter checks, neither stepping away from the house until he’d performed two of his own. He didn’t fasten his collar until right before he got out of the automobile at headquarters, a last pass of fingers over the angry indents as if to soothe and assure his trachea it wasn’t in danger before they were hidden behind military issue.
But why did it still feel like he was suffocating as they headed into work?
Include the following: food, bath, watch