Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ the other side of real ❯ the other side of real ( One-Shot )

The door is unlocked when he tries it. Edward knew all along it would be, but there's always that thrill of insecurity when he first puts his hand on the knob, that moment of indecision, maybe I misunderstood. But no, he understood fine. The door is unlocked, and he lets himself inside.

The apartment is dark, the air a bit cooler than it probably should be. It's never quite comfortable inside, either a little cold or a little hot, never quite right, and tonight the temperature is just slightly below what would be comfortable. It's quiet and dark, and Edward pauses just inside, to let his eyes adjust.

"Close the door."

It slides shut behind him with a slick metallic click. He locks it out of habit, and stands in the darkness, waiting for the Colonel to make the first move. He's nervous, and tells himself that he shouldn't be, but that doesn't help. There's a long pause before there's a sound of movement, the hiss of gas, a spark, and the spluttering of a lamp. Edward blinks toward the flame as the glass shield is replaced over it, and dark ghosts are burned into the backs of his eyes.

"Good." The Colonel relaxes back into the armchair beside the lamp, and his smile is soft tonight; he must have had a good day.

Edward stands quietly, just inside the door, as the Colonel gives him a critical once-over. He fights his nervousness by returning the inspection, looking the Colonel over - uniform impeccable, legs crossed in lazy relaxation, fingers laced before him, lamplight gilding his hair, arrays sketched out on the backs of his gloves in red thread. Edward frowns, and concentrates on the visible curve of one array, wondering how the Colonel got the threadwork fine enough that the array can function.

He doesn't bother to wonder what the Colonel was doing here before he arrived, sitting in the darkness waiting. The thought briefly crosses his mind, but is just as swiftly dismissed. It doesn't matter, really.

The Colonel's eyes track the lines of his body through his clothes, taking his time, and Edward tries not to fidget. It's difficult to just stand there and be examined. Eventually the man nods in approval, and says, "Strip."

This part is never easy, and of course that's pretty much the point. Edward takes off his gloves first, then his coat and jacket; the coolness of the air makes the muscles of his back tense as the warm fabric is shed. He keeps his eyes fixed on the Colonel, like a challenge ... as if he can prevent those dark eyes from running down his body as it's bared by locking gazes with the man. The boots are next, and he kicks them behind him.

The Colonel raises a hand as Edward begins to unbuckle his belt. "Shirt," he says. "Leave your pants on for now."

There's no way he can prevent it, really ... the Colonel's hungry eyes are already on his chest by the time he finishes pulling the shirt off over his head. He can feel that his nipples have hardened in the almost-uncomfortably cool air; his right nipple, the edge of it caught by the automail, tugs painfully as it contracts.

He's hard already, just being here, with the man's eyes on him. He shivers a little, and it's not entirely from the cold.

"Kneel," says the Colonel, and Edward slowly kneels, looking up at him now even though the Colonel is seated. His lips are pressed into a defiant frown, because he recognizes the ploy easily. But no matter. He's used to looking up at the Colonel, he does it every day. As long as that word doesn't come out of that softly-smiling mouth, it doesn't matter. And he knows it won't. So everything is fine.

There's nothing more for what feels like a long time. He balances himself and waits, watching the Colonel's gaze roam over his body again, trace the outlines of his scars, contemplate his automail shoulder and arm. He shivers again when the Colonel licks his lips while his eyes are fixed on Edward's left nipple, and yet again when those devouring eyes drop between his legs, examining the erection that he knows must be plainly visible through his pants.

"So eager," muses the Colonel, breaking the silence at last. "Eager and obedient. You know what that makes you."

Edward swallows, clears his throat. "Yes, sir." His cock aches, and he wants to stroke it.

The Colonel's hand moves, picking up something from the table beside him, and Edward knows what it is even before the man tosses it to the floor in front of him. The chain attached to the collar is long, and the Colonel keeps hold of the end of it. Edward looks at the collar, and although he was expecting it, his breath catches for a moment.

"Go on."

It's just a plain dog collar, made of thick black leather with a couple of attachment rings, the kind one would use to control a particularly large breed of animal. Edward picks it up and unbuckles it; it's heavy, with both its own weight and the weight of the chain. He watches the Colonel's face as he slides it around his neck and fumbles with the buckle, and sees the desire in the way the man's lips part, in the narrowing of those eyes. The feel of the collar, once it's around his neck, is solid and stiff, a no-nonsense weight on his collarbone. The Colonel tugs on the chain once Edward is finished putting it on, and pulls him slightly off-balance.

"Good boy," the Colonel smiles, and Edward flushes. His eyes finally drop to the floor, and he wishes he could touch his cock. It's sick, sick and pathetic how much he gets off on this, and he's sure that every hint of how turned on he's become is visible to the man holding his leash. He swallows to moisten his throat.

"Beautiful," murmurs the Colonel, and his voice has slipped a notch, deepening toward that low purr of his own arousal. Yes ... Edward knows that the Colonel thinks he is beautiful. He doesn't know why, he is far from undamaged. The Colonel never bothers to explain, and Edward doesn't ask. "Strip, now."

Edward has to stand up to slip out of his pants and underwear, and the chain lies cold against his belly until he's able to go down onto his knees again. It feels good to get his erection free of his clothing, but knowing that the Colonel is looking at it brings a flush of heat to his skin. It's humiliating, to be naked and collared like an animal, kneeling submissively in front of the fully-clothed Colonel. His arousal is even more humiliating, because he can't control it at all, and he can no longer even pretend that he can hide it.

"You want it," says the Colonel, completely composed aside from that purr in his voice. He toys with the chain, fingers gliding over smooth metal.

"Yes, sir." The acknowledgement is whispered, and Edward can't look the man in the face anymore, choosing instead to watch the Colonel's hands.

"Hmm." Another tug on Edward's collar, and the Colonel says, "Play with your nipple. With the automail. Make yourself moan."

His automail is never blood-temperature, and his fingers have already picked up the chill of the room. He hisses when the metal contacts his chest, and again as he flicks it over the tight knob of his left nipple. It's uncomfortably cold, but it's good because it's contact, and his nipples are sensitive - something the Colonel knows, and uses against him frequently. His cock twitches as he circles his nipple with cold metal fingers, and his eyes drift closed; he pinches lightly, then harder at the flash of pleasure. The shallow jerk of his hips is something entirely out of his control.

"Move your hand," says the Colonel softly. "I want to see."

For a moment, Edward is confused, and his eyes open again, but then he realizes that he's unconsciously moved his left hand to the floor between his knees, concealing his erection from view. He relocates it to his thigh, and at the Colonel's instruction, spreads his knees farther apart; the intensity of Colonel's eyes on his groin, on what he's doing with his automail hand, is as arousing as a physical touch, and far more degrading.

"Let your hair down."

Still rolling his nipple between his fingers, Edward reaches behind his head with his left hand and pulls the tie off his braid, and finger-combs his hair out. It's warm down over his shoulders, and he shakes his head to fan it out, to maximize the warmth it can offer.

There's no way the Colonel can miss, now, the way his breathing has deepened; he draws it between parted lips, and it's cold and raw in his throat. He must be transparent, as easy to read as a child's array, and he knows that the Colonel is probably getting pretty turned on as well but that's not nearly so obvious as his straining erection. When he cracks open his eyes again, that inscrutable gaze is stroking down his cock, and he moans.

"Good," whispers the Colonel. He leans sideways, the weight of his upper body on his elbow on the arm of the chair. It's a bored posture, a lazy posture, but the Colonel's eyes on him are completely focused and sharply aware. Gloved hands twist the chain a little, flip the free end from side to side with a light metallic rattle. "Touch yourself. Stroke your thighs."

Edward's hand is moving even before the Colonel can finish speaking. He's still cold, that just-barely-tolerable air chilling his kidneys, but the flesh of his thigh is hot under his palm. Down one, then up the other from automail port to groin, fingers gliding in the moist crevice where his leg joins his body. He wishes for kisses, soft lips and an active tongue between his legs instead, licking the salt from his skin, and his mind is full of the imagining of it. Hard fingers pinch his nipple again, and the sensation is almost like a gentle bite; he moans again, hips jerking.

The Colonel's soft words don't really register, but Edward obeys them anyway, cupping his balls, manipulating the soft skin of his scrotum. His fingers press hard into the flesh behind his scrotum, and he hisses in pleasure. It's not as good as intercourse - it's not as direct, not as hard and intense as intercourse - but it's the same sensation, and he can barely contain himself now. His hand is so close to his cock, it would take such a little movement to touch it ...

A sudden yank on his collar pulls him off his knees, and Edward only just manages to catch himself before he lands on his face on the floor. "Don't get carried away," warns the Colonel, and his voice has gone suddenly hard. "Remember what you are."

"Yes, sir," says Edward softly, licking his lips. He tries to push himself back up onto his knees, but finds that the Colonel is still holding his chain taut, and he can't get completely up without creeping closer. So he stays down, hands under him to keep his chest off the cold hardwood. There's another sudden yank on the collar, almost choking him, and he knows what's expected of him. So he continues, "Your dog. I'm your dog." It's mortifying, but he says it, and his voice is thick with not-quite-controlled lust; his hips refuse to remain still, even though there is nothing to thrust against but unsatisfying floor.

"Correct." The warm purr is back in the Colonel's voice, but Edward feels no slack on the collar yet. "And you're an obedient pet, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then tell me what you want."

Edward swallows, and says softly, "I want to come."

An amused chuckle, and then there is slack in the chain again, and Edward is allowed to sit up on his knees once more. His face burns with humiliation, and he watches the floor near the Colonel's feet. "A horny dog, then," says the Colonel. "You'd hump my leg if I let you, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, sir." He licks his lips, able to imagine it quite clearly ... his body draped over the Colonel's thighs, his groin rubbing against the Colonel's blue-clothed calf as his head and back are petted ... He wonders if it will be ordered of him. Or allowed. His cock is painfully hard.

"Mmmm." There's sound of movement from the armchair, and then the Colonel's hand places something on the floor, and he kicks it skidding across the wood toward Edward. It's immediately recognizable once Edward chooses to focus on it as a small glass jar of oil. He picks it up. "I want to see everything," says the Colonel.

The heat of Edward's skin is becoming an effective antidote to the chill of the air, although the sweat on his naked back is not comfortable. He opens the jar and leaves it on the floor next to his knee as he dips his fingers inside and uses them on himself. He spreads his legs as widely as he can, and he's not sure that Mustang has all that perfect of a view ... the only way to be sure would be to lay down on his back, and there's no way he can do that without more slack in the chain. So he does the best he can, arching his hips forward as he smears as much of the oil as is feasible onto himself, and gets as much of it inside as possible.

The sensation of his own fingers, buried as deeply in his body as he can manage, is both slightly uncomfortable and intensely pleasurable, and he wishes there were more. At the Colonel's soft instruction, he begins to move them, fucking himself on his fingers, and his hips pick up the rhythm on their own. The tip of his cock is wet with pre-come now, and the side of his arm rubs inevitably against the base as he fucks himself; he can't keep his eyes open for long.

It's horrible ... he's naked, collared and chained, groveling like the dog the Colonel calls him, offering this shockingly sexual performance at the Colonel's whim, and the horrible part of it is that he's so intolerably hard. He leans back until all the slack in the chain is gone, and it's holding him up, keeping him from falling backward, and abandons himself to the feeling of something inside him. He can't really put the pressure he wants where he wants it, but it still feels damned good, and perhaps if he's wanton enough, the Colonel will make him come somehow.

"Stop," says the Colonel, and it's the yank on the collar that sways Edward and really gets his attention. His hips continue to thrust into the air after he's removed his fingers from himself and bowed down onto his hands and knees. "Come here."

His breath coming quick and deep now, Edward crawls forward until he's told to stop, and turns around to present his back to the Colonel when told to. His hands are yanked behind him, and there's a slight panic as his wrists are bound together, because if he can't transmute, he's helpless, and he's not used to being helpless. His body does not agree with his unease, however; his erection does not falter for a second. Something is wrapped around his bound wrists, and then fastened to a ring on the back of his collar, holding his wrists up in the middle of his back. It's a strain on his good shoulder, one that he can ease only by pulling down on his wrists and half-choking himself. He's thrown across the Colonel's lap then, belly down, and the Colonel strips off a glove to roughly check how well he's lubricated himself, and then caress him from behind; he moans as he's handled.

"Slut," says the Colonel, his voice just as rough as his touch.

"Yes, sir," whispers Edward, squirming and trying to spread his legs wider, inviting more.

"Dog."

"Yes." He can't bring his hands down as far as his ass, even if he chokes himself, so there's no hindrance to the Colonel's possessive exploration. Edward tries to thrust, and contacts nothing; he moans and struggles as fingers close around his defenseless balls, an ungentle hold that is just short of painful.

"Beg." The Colonel's other hand twists the chain, pulling it short and taut again. Edward hadn't been planning on trying to escape, but now that he can't, he tugs against the chain just to feel his own helplessness.

He knows what the Colonel wants, and he provides it, as a low whining bark. It's not a very good approximation of a real dog bark, but it's sufficient, and he can hear the man's answering moan. He barks again, and whines again, and the hand that holds his chain lets one loop drop so it can maul his hair. The other hand squeezes his thigh just above the automail as he barks and flushes hotly. Why does he do things like this? What normal person would want to be humiliated this way?

"Fuck," whispers the Colonel brokenly, and Edward knows he's wanted.

He's pushed off the Colonel's lap with no finesse at all, and almost choked as he's hauled up to his knees by the collar. It's possible to look up at the Colonel's face again, now that he's no longer alone in his arousal, and those eyes are very dark and misty with lust as they watch him. The Colonel unfastens his pants, frees his erection - paler than Edward's, a little thicker around, and darker around the crown - and pulls Edward into position between his knees.

"Suck," he whispers, and Edward leans forward to obey.

He manages to get most of it into his mouth and dip his head down twice before hands bury themselves in his hair to move him the way the Colonel wants. He makes a soft sound as he's forced to take all of it and the tip goes suddenly down his throat, and the Colonel moans. The man sits forward in the chair, closer to the edge to give himself space to thrust, and Edward twists his wrists. He wants to be free. It's not pleasant at all, being fucked in the mouth, gagging on each thrust and unable to breathe properly. He groans again, and the Colonel's breath catches; Edward suddenly struggles and whimpers as his hair is painfully twisted. The choked sounds he makes are apparently quite pleasurable for the Colonel.

When he's pushed back, all he can think about is breathing, and he does, gasping with a wet open mouth as the Colonel roughly pets his hair. "Fuck," the Colonel whispers again.

"Yes, sir," whispers Edward back, without looking or trying to look. He's still so shamefully hard, even through all the rough handling, and he twists his wrists, wanting to touch himself, touch the Colonel ... anything.

"You want it," says the Colonel. It isn't a question, but Edward answers it anyway.

"Yes, sir." Then he's on his belly on the floor, and the Colonel is kneeling behind him, pulling up his hips to force him onto his knees. He can't support himself with his hands; his weight is on his chest, and his throat is stretched out no matter how he turns his head, making the act of breathing uncomfortably difficult. Then the Colonel's cock is inside him, and none of that matters. The penetration is swift and greedy, and despite the preparation it's a painful shock to be so abruptly violated. He cries out from the pain and surprise of it and struggles again, and his automail knee slides, unable to find purchase against the floor. The Colonel holds his hips up, and does not let him fall.

The Colonel's thrusts are fast and hard, utterly ruthless. They hit Edward precisely, and he's screaming a little on each one as pleasure resonates through his pelvis and forces hot drops of fluid out of the tip of his cock; he can smell the pre-come as it hits the floor, the stench of his own sexuality rising thickly into the air. Edward squirms, and fights the restraints around his wrists, fights the way he's being held and brutally fucked, but he can't get enough leverage with his knees to twist free of the Colonel's hands. The Colonel's fingers dig painfully into his hips, pushing him back and forth to meet each thrust. Using him. He can feel the cold links of the chain, held against his left hip under one of the Colonel's hands and pressed into his skin. The collar is tight against his throat, because he can't get his wrists high enough to take the pressure off, and the more he fights it, the more he chokes himself.

"Come for me," whispers the Colonel harshly, and rearranges his grip, dropping the chain and leaning forward to wrap one arm around Edward's belly; the other damp hand closes around Edward's cock, and he screams for real. That's what he wants, and he spasms and yanks, fucking into the Colonel's hand as best he can as he's impaled and filled and dirtied and used and he can't breathe and black spots are obscuring his vision and oh fuck and the next thing he knows he's belly-down on the floor twitching in the wetness of his own come with a buzz like intoxication slowly clearing from his brain, and a hum of pleasure vibrating under his skin.

The Colonel is still inside him, moving a little, but Edward can tell from the feel of it that he's already come as well. It's still hard to breathe, but the Colonel is holding his wrists up to ease the pressure he'd put on his own throat when he came. Every now and then a lightning-flash of pleasure goes through him, and he jerks with it, but other than that neither of them move for what seems like a long time.

Eventually the Colonel stirs, and Edward's wrists are untied entirely. He eases them down slowly, because his left shoulder aches horribly when he finally is able to straighten it. His skin is cooling rapidly, wet with his own sweat and the Colonel's, and he's covered in semen. He doesn't bother to open his eyes, or try to move beyond that.

When the Colonel rises, Edward can feel the sweep of cloth over his leg; the man never really undressed. He listens as the Colonel moves around the room, doing things, and then walks out to wash up in the bathroom. Edward lays quietly with his eyes closed, the chain a solid weight on the floor beside him. It pins him down.

He's dirty. He hurts in a number of places - dully in his shoulder, burning around his neck, sharply in his rear, and it feels like he may have bruised himself in a couple of spots. His legs are still spread, and he can feel come dripping between them. He must look like he's been assaulted, and he sort of feels like it, only there's an underlying satisfaction that leaves him unmoving on the floor, drifting in a haze of pleasure.

When he gets home, he'll need to make sure his brother doesn't see the bruise from the collar around his neck. There's no way there isn't one there, and he won't want to deal with questions.

Soft weight approaches, and the Colonel kneels beside him. A hand goes through his hair, gentle now. "You going to be all right?"

"Yeah," says Edward. "Thanks."

Whatever the Colonel thinks of it, he keeps to himself. "There should be enough water for a bath," he says. "And there are clean clothes for you in the bathroom."

"Okay." Edward swallows, and it hurts a little to do so.

The Colonel hesitates, and starts to say, "Fullmetal ..." but then apparently thinks better of it. He makes an unclassifiable little sound, and continues to pet Edward's hair; the touch is so soft, so appreciative and so unlike how he'd yanked on Edward's hair before. It's a lover's touch. Finally he says only, "Lock up when you leave."

Then his footsteps retreat, and he lets himself out. It's a long time before Edward feels like moving from the floor.