Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ The Misuse of Alchemy Series ❯ Misuse of Dextrose Metabolic Transmutation ( Chapter 7 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

The Misuse of Alchemy series
a Full Metal Alchemist based collection of erotic fanfiction involving the misuse and abuse of alchemy.
Because sex is better with an alchemist!
by Masamune Reforged
Disclaimer: I don't own Full Metal Alchemist or any of the characters in it. If I did, you'd bet there'd be more porn of it.
Warnings: Yaoi (failed Havoc x Ed, rocky Roy x Ed, dash of explicit Roy x Al), alcohol consumption, adult language, humor, PLOT?
 
This one's for Amethyst-eyed Koneko. You have helped give birth to a demon.
 
Author note: I did say that all of these “parts” would be one-shots. I fully intend to keep it so that any one part in this series can be read on its own. However, I do have an overall 'plot' in mind for this thing. Don't put too much stock in it. Also, NONE of this series will be in chronological order. Finally, I was pretty wasted when I wrote most of this...
 
Misuse of Alchemy 8
Misuse of Dextrose Metabolic Transmutation
Summary: Revenge is a dish best served with copious quantities of alcohol
 
Jean Havoc's arm hoisted the full mug of beer high into the hazy bar air. A combination of the object's weight and the man's lack of balance made him wobble. The amber liquid in his mug sloshed, cresting over and down the side of the massive glass. Havoc smirked a set of yellowed teeth smirked, chuckling like a goof.
 
“Cheers!!!” Havoc enthusiastically raised the ruckus shout, for the umpteenth time tonight.
 
“Yeah, yeah... cheers...”
 
Not bothering to get out of his seat, Edward Elric hardly raised his own mug; his face and tone an obvious contrast to Havoc's enthusiasm and mirth. At 19, the alchemist was still a little short, and with the tall, tobacco binging man standing above him, his glass came far from close to touching Havoc's.
 
Havoc frowned just a little, but then—remembering what he was doing and who he was with—giggled a little and lowered his glass to crash into Ed's. “CHEERS!” Havoc bellowed again.
 
I fucking swear, Ed thought to himself darkly, if that guy makes me cheers him one time, I'm emptying the entire bar on his head, sticking his cigarettes into his pee hole, and going home.
 
It was not Ed's first time in the officer's club; a large, hastily constructed brick building located near the main barracks in Central City. He had been allowed entrance and the low-grade alcohol rationed by the Budget Department long before he'd reached the standard 'age of adulthood' in Amestris because of his status in the military. But Ed tried hard to not make a habit of coming to the place. It wasn't just that he only rarely enjoyed drinking. It wasn't just the smell of dried yeast scum. It wasn't just the shitty drinks. It wasn't even the poisonous fog of cigarette smoke that choked the room.
 
“CHEERS!!!” The reason, sitting across from him, answered the rallying cry from a comrade at a nearby table. A few other drunkards echoed the creed.
 
“Come on, Ed! Drink up! Whass wrong? You pussying out already?”
 
Ed didn't come to the officer's club because Jean Havoc was always there.
 
“Whass that!? Come on! Tha's not how ya drink!” A hand titled Ed's glass up, ensuring the beer would end up either down his throat or all over his clothing. “Come on! Too much for ya?” Ed hated backing down from a challenge. “That's righ'! There ya go!”
 
By the time Havoc let go of his glass, half of its contents were gone. The place they now resided reacted adversely to the sudden invasion, and Ed cringed and made a face as the sickening feeling of being stuffed full with too much useless, bubbly liquid made his stomach clench. He felt bloated and slow, and he was getting pretty drunk now.
 
Havoc laughed at the face Ed was making. He reached out across the table and smacked him on the back. “Oh? Too much?” Havoc gave him another stiff smack on the back, then, leaving his hand there, began rubbing the alchemist above his jacket. The touch and the ballooning cramp in his stomach caused Ed to growl. “Not too fass' now! Don't want ya gettin' so drunk, ya pass out!”
 
Knowing this statement to be entirely false, Ed grabbed the groping hand and growled in rebuttal, “I'll be fine.” He gave Havoc's hand a mean squeeze—somewhat wishing he still had automail so he could earn a broken bone or two—and lifted it off of him. He narrowed his eyes at Havoc, who was smiling stupidly and staring at where his hand met Ed's. Ed spoke, “At this rate you're going to be the one who ends up passing out and pissing his drawers.” Ed pulled his hand back quickly, automatically reaching for his mug.
 
“Hahaha!” Havoc laughed, far louder and harder than humor warranted. “Sure, sure! But if ya drink even half of what I do, I'ah have to carry you home and put ya to bed!” Havoc leaned forward, tried his best to put on a seductive face, and said in a low voice, “Or you wanna come 'ome with me anyway?” His hand stroked Ed's leg beneath the table.
 
“Keep dreaming,” Ed spat nastily, kicking Havoc in the shin with his shoe.
 
As Havoc cursed and rubbed his wounded boo-boo, Ed nursed his drink and thought to himself, This is why you never agree to go out drinking with a guy who wants to screw you. Ash from Havoc's cigarette fell, and a bit of it got caught in the blond stubble of his beard. ...who's a slovenly dope without a sense of tact... Ed added on.
 
It wasn't that Havoc was ugly. He wasn't exactly... handsome... not by a mile... Ed had seen him shirtless at the gym before—Havoc's planning, no doubt—and had to admit the guy was pretty well built. But, the fact of the matter was that he and Ed had absolutely nothing in common, and Ed preferred guys who could challenge him intellectually—and sexually—guys with somewhere in the area of two to three times the brain power and finesse that Jean Havoc did. The fact that Havoc smoked like a chimney on steroids and always looked like he'd just finished sleeping in a trash bin didn't help the man's cause.
 
“Hey now!” Havoc shot him an angry look, face betraying his wounded pride. “No need to ge' feishty. Doncha forget tha' you were the one who wanned to come out with me!”
 
Oh, the terrible irony... After all the times Ed had refused Havoc's invitations and advances, for him to be the one to ask Jean to go out drinking was mortifyingly tear worthy. All because of that fucking two-timing, manipulative piece of shit. By which, of course, Ed meant Roy Mustang. Beer was consumed spitefully amid the recollection of the event that had driven Ed to use Havoc as a prop to strike back against his sometimes lover.
 
“Hey, yo! Hey you, w—waiter guy! Yo! A'other beer! Hey! YO!” Havoc was occupied, at least for the moment. This left Ed free to indulge you, the reader, in the back story that set this scene, and will likely be a chapter sometime later, maybe. I don't know if I can handle continuity in this thing... Note. This breach of the fourth wall brought to you by whiskey. Whiskey! Drink it while writing and see what kind of random shit ends up in your fanfiction folder the next morning!
 
It had happened three days ago, when Ed had gone over to Roy's place unannounced, letting himself in with the spare key the man had given him. He'd noticed the orgy of sounds only a few steps into the apartment: the creaking bed frame, the rattling head board, the slick slapping of flesh, the pants and moans. That wasn't too uncommon. Ed and Mustang's relationship, if it could be called that, was more than a little bit “open”. Mustang didn't have the reputation of being a playboy for nothing, and Ed pulled his fair share of tricks as well.
 
Ed had turned to leave when it had happened. A voice had rung out and frozen Ed mid-step. He then had heard Mustang saying something in a low tone, followed by a pleasured cry, the unmistakable sound of a butt being slapped, and then a very, very, very familiar voice crying out to “Fuck me! Fuck my nasty pussy!”
 
It hadn't been the fact that it'd been a male voice issuing those words, and it hadn't been the words themselves either. Ed knew that Mustang loved his dirty talk and roleplay, and that guys were as common targets as women for the general's sexploits. It had been that Ed knew that voice.
 
And when he'd heard it again, Ed had instantly bolted into Mustang's bedroom, where the man was piledriving a moaning and squirming Alphonse Elric... wearing frilly, pink stockings...
 
Al was still only 17!!! And... and... he was his brother!!!
 
“Hey, yo! Yo, Ed!” Havoc had two fresh mugs of beer, one in each hand, and was waving them in front of Ed's face, breaking the poorly placed, ill-delivered flashback. Havoc shot Ed a loopy grin and pushed one of the mugs in front of the brooding blond. “Come on! You've been stewin' in your sauce all night now! Ya know, whatever it is that's eatin' ya, it doesn't do no good to think about it so much, especially when you're drinkin'.” Havoc held up his glass and gave Ed a grin. “Cheers?”
 
Ed smiled despite himself, replacing his now empty glass with the one offered by Jean and raising it up. “Cheers,” he said, clinking the mugs together. For all his shortcomings, and they did number a plethora, Havoc wasn't such a bad guy. Ed took a long drink.
 
“And, ya know,” Havoc said again, eyeing the heavy chugs Ed was taking. “There's somethin' else that's pretty good for gettin' your mind off of things.”
 
There was the goddamn hand on his leg again. GOD FUCKING DAMNIT!
 
Ed was about to shoot back with something nasty and demeaning, something in the vein of Havoc's cigarettes being representative of the size of something else the man focused too much time on, when the bubbles in his guts became too much. Mouth full of beer, Ed tried to swallow, burp, and curse off Havoc all at the same kind. The result was an embarrassing bout of spluttering coughs, earning Havoc's hand patting him on the back again.
 
“Guess ya still a kid after all!”
 
Then why the fuck are you groping my leg every chance you can get, you smelly slob? Ed wanted to say, but didn't have the chance. Instead he coughed one last time, then made to brush Havoc's hand away once and for all. But he didn't have the chance to do that either.
 
Sitting back in his chair, Havoc made a face, then started to stand up. “Be right back,” he told Ed. “Gotta drain the beast, if ya know what I mean.” He winked to follow up his cheesy line with even more boorish idiocy.
 
Seeing his chance, Ed got up too and said, “Actually, I'm getting a little tired. Think I'm going to call it a night.” He would never again go out drinking alone with Havoc. It had been a bad idea from the start. He'd only done it to get back at Mustang.
 
“Hey, hey,” Havoc lightly grabbed his arm. “Now-come on. Is's still way early.”
 
“It's almost one in the morning,” Ed pointed out, removing Havoc's hand from his body for the billionth time. Drunks were so clingy...
 
“Whass it, pas' your bed time?” Havoc shot back. Jean Havoc wasn't entirely a fool. He knew the best way to control Ed was to challenge him. But Ed wasn't going to fall for that tonight.
 
“I have things to do tomorrow,” Ed said, largely a lie. He did have plans to meet up with Fletcher Tringham for a study-session, but other than that...
 
“Oh ho, sure you do!” Havoc called the bluff well, but then squirmed a little and looked from Ed to the corner where the bathrooms were, back to Ed.
 
“I do!” Ed said simply. It was just a waiting game now.
 
“And... don' ya wanna...” Havoc attempted, looking more uncomfortable.
 
“No,” Ed dodged. He knew Havoc wouldn't be able to wait long.
 
“Ah' least lemme get a cab for ya,” Havoc offered.
 
“I'd rather walk, thanks,” Ed turned it down.
 
“Then I'll walk with ya!” Havoc was getting desperate.
 
“I'm not your girlfriend.” Ed was getting mean.
 
Havoc leaned forward again, that awful mix of cigarette stench and beer breath overpowering. “Wanna be?” Havoc asked. The image of his brother in those pink stockings, face twisted to the side and rock hard cock poking out, flashed unbidden through Ed's mind.
 
“No,” was all Ed said.
 
Havoc's face fell for a second, then he frowned angrily. He seemed to want to say something, but seemed to need to go to the toilet even more. He took a step away from Ed, still looking pissed. “Fine,” Havoc said, hurt rejection evident. “Do whatever you wan'.” He turned and went to the toilets.
 
Ed let out a frustrated sigh and began to make his way towards the exit.
 
“Leaving so soon?” a familiar voice asked, just loud enough to get his attention. Ed turned, sending the nastiest look he could muster at a smirking Roy Mustang. “It's still early,” Mustang commented with a flourish of his watch. “And it was just getting good too!”
 
Ed swallowed the hundreds of obscenities that came to his mind and asked instead, “How long have you been eavesdropping?”
 
“'Eavesdropping'? Me?” Roy faked just enough shock to draw the maximum amount of fury out of the pretend gesture. “No, no, no. I just came here to enjoy a drink!” He lifted his half-finished glass, containing a whiskey on the rocks. “And,” Mustang continued, “I've been enjoying it since it first became apparent that your little attempt to make me jealous wasn't going so well; which was a good few hours ago, I suppose.” Mustang's pleasure was painted clear on his face.
 
“You twisted son of a fucking whore,” Ed cursed in a breath.
 
“That's me.” Roy raised his glass in salute. But then the man narrowed his eyes and, drawing himself up a little higher in his chair, shifted his tone to something Ed seldom heard him use except for when they were alone. “But even if you're not in uniform, Fullmetal, you are still to address me as 'general', understand?”
 
The command, and the way the general had delivered it, sent shivers down Ed's spine, making him reply without even thinking, “Yes, sir.”
 
“Yes, sir, what?” Mustang demanded.
 
Ed grated his teeth, temper boiling. If they weren't surrounded by dozens of military people, Ed told himself that he would be beating the living hell out of the man. But that wasn't something he'd truly do, and knowing it made Ed even angrier, with himself and with the man sitting in front of him.
 
“Yes, sir, General,” Ed ground out the last word with loathing that would've made a puppy whimper.
 
“Good,” Mustang grinned devilishly. “Now, if you would like to run away back home, feel free.”
 
The urge to kill was within spitting distance of its peak level.
 
He was not running away!
 
Ed turned, grinding his boots hard enough to break the floorboards. He stalked back towards his table.
 
“Have a good night.” Roy raised his glass, sending a hollow toast towards Ed.
 
Ed sat down at the table with all of his and Havoc's empty beer steins. Thoughts too dark and graphically violent to be recorded went through his mind before Havoc sat down again, looking more than a little surprised that Ed was still there.
 
“You' ah... still ere?” Havoc stated the obvious as though it took a profound effort to understand how it could be so, which it did.
 
“Yeah,” Ed said, displeasure more than evident in his tone.
 
Havoc frowned, seeming not to count on such a simple reply. The two of them were silent amid the general din of the beer hall, before Havoc chuckled to himself a little and said, “Guess yah hot for me affah all, huh?”
 
Amestris scientists worked around the clock to produce tank armor as thick as a drunk Jean Havoc.
 
Ed bit back the truth, considerably straining his discretion in the act. “Let's get a few more drinks.” Ed decided. If he drank enough, maybe he could murder Mustang and get off with just a temporary insanity verdict.
 
This decision pleased Havoc, and he asked, “Ah'ight'. Some, huhhuh, 'foreplay' then? Whaddya wan'? Lageh? Ale?” He was starting to slur his words pretty bad now, and Ed could tell it wouldn't be long before both of them were wasted.
 
“Whatever,” Ed shrugged. “Beer is beer.” Havoc was drunk, but because of the difference in weight, the man could still out-drink him with ease. And as much as he felt like getting shit-faced drunk, the idea of being too drunk with a Havoc who was way too horny and grope-happy was enough to hold him back. “Lager, whatever. They're all the same.”
 
“Now, now! Tha's nah true!” Havoc shook a finger at Ed. “Ale's got a bunch more akahol 'n it than lager.” A light came on in the house that was Edward Elric's mind. “An lageh's got a ton more sugar!”[1] Jean delivered his lesson on beers with a great air of self-importance. “An', ya know— 'Ey! Where ya goin'?”
 
Ed had gotten up. He smiled at Havoc and said, “I'm going to get us drinks. What do you want?”
 
Havoc's face expressed confusion, and a few moments later his brain and mouth worked together to produce a statement in confirmation of that mental state. “Buyin' me a drink?” He almost spotted that this was too good to be true, but his beer-slowed mind wasn't up for the task, and he said. “Ah lager, I guess.”
 
“Lager, got it,” Ed said, turning and walking away.
 
He didn't head to the bar straight away. Ed instead took a few turns, ending back at the table where Roy Mustang sat, sipping a nearly empty whiskey on the rocks. The man turned to him with a smile, but it was clear that he hadn't expected Ed to approach him so soon after their last confrontation, if at all.
 
“I want you to cover my tab for the night,” Ed said before Mustang could come up with any smart ass comment that would make him want to backhand the man. He needed Mustang to agree to this. “I'll make it worth your time,” Ed added in a hushed voice.
 
Mustang raised an eyebrow and frowned, wary. He said nothing. Ed knew the man was calculating the possible factors and potential elements behind the request, considering how best to answer. Ed didn't want to give him too much time. The key lay in making Mustang act on his toes and in hoping that eventually the man would make a mistake.
 
Ed leaned forward, whispering in Mustang's ear, “Listen. Don't think this means I'm forgiving you for anything. You had sex with my goddamn little brother; the least you can do is buy me a drink or two here and there.”
 
“I don't—” Mustang began to protest, but Ed wouldn't give him a chance.
 
Ed had to be the Godfather.[2] “Twenty minutes, you and me, anything you want,” he made Mustang an offer he couldn't refuse. The worst part was that Ed's body reacted to his words with a twitch of his sex. He became more than a little hard as he realized what kind of chip he was negotiating with. Ed hadn't intended to use sex as leverage, but here he was. He'd made the offer of his own free will, and now his body was getting excited at the prospect of seeing it fulfilled.
 
Mustang drained the rest of his glass, taking his sweet time. “Just you and me?” he asked. The man was always scheming to get Ed to agree to a threesome.
 
“Just us,” Ed reaffirmed.
 
Mustang frowned, made his compensation, “Forty minutes then.”
 
“Thirty,” Ed drew the line.
 
“Done.”
 
“Good.”
 
“I'll let you know when and where.”
 
“Whatever.” Ed laid the final bait with a scoffing dismissal, turned to walk away.
 
“Oh, Fullmetal?” Ed turned back around. Mustang was holding up his empty glass. “And another whiskey for me.”
 
Ed almost couldn't hide his smile, saying almost too quickly, “Yes, sir, General.”
 
He saw Mustang narrow his brow at the words, but turned and left before anything else could be said. Ed made his way back through the officer's hall, taking a route so that Havoc couldn't catch sight of him. On a Friday night, the place was crowded and full of the usual revelry and drunken debauchery. People slurred drunken songs, raced to play drinking games, and a few were already bathing face-first in a pool of their own drool. Ed passed right by the bar, walking into the back room.
 
“Hey!” an angry voice barked at him, a small, red-haired man stalking up to him. “You can't come back here, buddy!”
 
Anticipating this, Ed immediately brandished his silver watch and said, “State Alchemist.”
 
“Mother fucking State Alchemists,” the red-haired barkeep spat.
 
“I know. We're the worst,” Ed said, walking over towards what he wanted.
 
“Hey, buddy!” the barkeep yelled again. “You can drink it, but you gotta pay for it. State Alchemists too, alright?”
 
“Sure thing.” Ed grinned full to swallow the moon. He stopped in front of a massive wooden cask with writing on the side. “Hey, this is lager, right?” he asked the barkeep.
 
“Huh? Yeah it is. What about it?” If you think you've had rough nights at work, you should count your lucky stars that you're not a bartender who has to serve military personnel.
 
“Put it on General Mustang's tab,” Ed smiled, feeling the wood of the cask, oak.
 
“Huh?” the barkeep asked. “The whole thing?”
 
“The whole thing,” Ed said. There were about 40 liters of beer inside. “Oh, and two—no, three bottles of the most expensive whiskey you have, and a big empty beer mug.”
 
The bartender cursed, went away, and came back with three bottles of whiskey and the empty beer mug. Ed, who was still looking in concentration at the oak beer cask, took the mug and filled it almost to the top with amber lager. He set it down on another table, then turned and resumed looking at the beer cask.
 
The bartender said, “Listen, kid. I can give you the whole thing, especially since you say it's for a general. But it's going to take a while to serve all of that, okay?”
 
“Don't worry, you won't need to serve it,” Ed said, placing both hands on the wood.
 
“Wha- Kid, look, it's a whole fucking cask of booze. There ain't no way—”
 
A flash of blue light cut the man off. He then let out a curse as he saw that the massive wooden cask had become a bucket of brown liquid and a small oak statue of Roy Mustang dressed in a leotard. The craftmanship on the statue was excellent. Ed admired it for a second, then took a whiff of the liquid. He poured just a small bit of it into the mug of ale, topping it off.
 
“Hey now,” the bartender began to protest, awe giving way to concern. “I'm still getting paid for this, right?” he asked.
 
“It's on General Mustang,” Ed said, turning his concentration to the bottles of whiskey now. A flash of blue later, they were a normal size glass of concentrated kidney poison and a beautiful bowl.[3]
 
“And can I get a mug of lager? Normal,” Ed asked the bartender. The bartender answered with a string of obscenities. Ed added, “Oh, and there are two guys out there who are pretty sick. I think you better call an ambulance, just to make sure.”
 
“You State Alchemists are motherfucking devils, you know that?” The bartender shook his head and stalked off.
 
“No such thing as the devil.” Ed grinned to himself. He took a sip of the transmuted ale mixture that made him grimace. He went to the sink, dumped half of it out, and filled the rest with water. Mustang's whiskey, he left as it was.
 
After another minute, the red-haired barkeep came back with a thing of beer for Ed. Instead of handing it over, though, he said, “Listen, kid. All of the stuff is charged to the general's tab but... That beer, or whatever you did to it, that's okay, but that whiskey...”
 
Ed knew he had to take a chance, and did, “The whiskey is for Mustang.”
 
The bartender gave a nasty, devious grin, handing Ed his beer. “The ambulance is on its way.” He went to the door that led back out to the bar. “Oh, and kid? You didn't see me back here, okay?”
 
Ed gave a smile and a nod. The bartender left. Ed brought out the three drinks.
 
Havoc and Mustang awoke the next morning in a hospital, both of their penises in terribly uncomfortable catheters, both of their heads throbbing with hangovers bordering on legendary.
 
-end Misuse of Dextrose Metabolic Transmutation
Misuse of Alchemy 8
 
Notes:
[1]In the most general terms, of course, lagers tend to have more sugar, less alcohol. Of course, it really depends on the way they're brewed.
 
[2] A reference to Mario Puzo's The Godfather. “We're gonna make him an offer he can't refuse.”
 
[3]Yeast produces alcohol by metabolizing simple sugars (Dextrose) into two primary by-products: ethanol and carbon dioxide. The carbon dioxide (CO2)is released into the atmosphere, and the alcohol remains. Because the CO2 has left the liquid, the beer becomes less dense. The more sugar the yeast metabolizes, the higher the amount of CO2 that is released, and consequently the higher the percentage of alcohol.
I have no clue what this would mean or how it would work with whiskey. Totally cut corners there.
 
“We can't stop here! This is plot-bunny country!”