Title: Exchanges on a Steam Train
Genre: Slash fanfiction, PWP.
Length: Ca. 1300 words.
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist: the manga series by H. Arakawa.
Pairing: Führer King Bradley/Master Sergeant Kain Fuery
Tags: Adult/NC-17. Yaoi/slash (m/m). Please note: dub-con.
Excerpt: “a clear misuse of power”.
AN: Trains, smut and FMA characters: I have a thing for them. That thing resulted in the following ficlet.
The smell of sweat is overwhelming. Master Sergeant Kain Fuery is standing halfway behind Colonel Roy Mustang, who is relating the latest news about the suspected chimera. Führer King Bradley is exercising and requesting further details at the same time. The man is incredible: dancing across the gym floor in a white body suit, a sword in each hand, stabbing and slashing the air like a whirlwind of steel and muscle. At the same time he’s obviously paying close attention to the Colonel’s report, following every point of interest until he is finally satisfied. The man’s capacity is astounding in every way. The thought is making Fuery a little nervous about his own pounding crotch, as he watches the Führer’s tight body sway and bob. The Führer has a very impressive bulge himself.
Kain dries his hands and unlocks the bathroom door. As he tries to get out without touching the door too much – facilities like these are never very clean after all – the train coach suddenly lurches and crashes him heavily into a broad blue chest.
“Excuse me, Sir.” he says, and glances up. He is extremely startled to recognize who he’s leaning up against.
“Master Sergeant.” Führer Bradley looks back down at him. There is no noticeable scorn in his eye, but no laughter either.
“I’m so sorry, Sir! Please excuse me, Sir!” Fuery salutes frantically. Images of public military punishment race through his head and he feels tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. He barely manages to keep them from falling.
“Eager, much?” Führer Bradley eyes him again. “Well then, Master Sergeant, I don’t think you can be excused that easily.” Bradley drags him back into the stall and pushes him against the rattling door. Fuery can’t imagine why. “Please, Sir?”
Bradley secures the door behind them and starts unbuttoning his pants. Fuery doesn’t know where to look when Bradley pulls out his cock and – shockingly? disappointingly? – opens the lid to the toilet (which Fuery had considerately closed) and starts to pee, legs spread in a wide stance. The room is really tiny and Fuery is paralysed. He wants to look away, but just can’t. The unimaginable scene in front of him seems to go on and on.
“I don’t mind onlookers, you know.” Bradley tells him, a smirk now curling the corner of his mouth as he looks down. Fuery blushes like mad.
Bradley finally shakes off the last drop, and that shakes Fuery out of his trance as well. He gathers enough courage to look up at his Führer.
“Please let me out, Sir.” he musters.
Führer Bradley leans over him again, pants still open. His heavy body presses Fuery against the bathroom door and the sharp stubble on his cheek rubs Fuery’s temple as he speaks.
“It can get very lonely on these long trips away from home, don’t you think?”
“I’m fine, Sir. Not a problem, Sir.”
“Of course you are. A fine young soldier, indeed.”
The heavy breathing in his ear gives him a brief warning of what Bradley is about to do. It’s not the first time Fuery has been pressed against a wall by another man, but it has never been by another officer and never against his expressed will.
“Turn around, Master Sergeant.”
Fuery can’t manage to act on the order before he is yanked around, uniform jacket lifted up and trousers pulled down to his knees. “Sir, you can’t do this! Please!”
“Watch me.” Bradley’s voice is rough against his his ear.
Fuery doesn’t answer. A random thought – of course he can’t watch if he’s pressed face first against the wall – flashes across his mind. He hears Bradley spit and feels the broad head of the Führer’s cock press against his clenched cheeks. A sudden tug of lust fights his resolve and willed revulsion. He won’t let his sudden attraction show, though. This is a clear misuse of power – and by the Führer himself! Who would accept Fuery’s complaint against the head of the military? No one that counts, and even if somebody wanted to, what could they do? The thought of Führer Bradley’s absolute power makes Fuery’s cock twitch again.
Bradley enters him surprisingly gently, quite in contrast to his overwhelming dominance. He actually stops himself several times to spit and slick up. Even if the stretching smarts pretty bad at first – the size of what’s stretching him exceeds his hottest fantasies after all – Fuery’s pride soon hurts worse than his sphincter. And “The Führer’s cock is pounding my ass!” is stuck on repeat in his head.
“How does that feel, Master Sergeant?”
“Please, Sir, please!” Mortified, Fuery realizes that his pleading just changed from “Let me go!” to “Let me come!” The feel of the Führer’s cock – so hot – makes Fuery’s voice come out in gasps.
Bradley eases them away from the door and turns them both around, effort noticeable in the tight space, before he lowers them onto the toilet seat, Fuery on top. Fuery can see himself in the stained bathroom mirror: big brown eyes bright with fluid, cheeks flushed. He is panting heavily. Bradley’s aroused smirk hovering just over his shoulder. He blushes again as Bradley looks down and sees Fuery’s leaking erection.
The murmur against his ear makes Fuery shiver, and the Führer’s firm hand around his cock makes him shake. It doesn’t take many strokes to make Fuery come. Hard. Dazedly, he hears someone pounding and shouting at the door: “What’s taking so long in there? Others have needs too, y’know! Have you fallen in or what?” The voice sounds familiar to Fuery, but he’s having trouble concentrating at the moment.
“Go away!” The Führer growls and gives a few more thrusts before he lets go of Fuery’s spent cock to steady himself against the wall: the train has hit a curve, causing him to lose his balance. The mirror is rattling in its frames.
“This won’t do. Rise.” Bradley commands. Fuery eases off, and narrowly avoids stepping in the puddle on the floor. His cock already feels cold with the drying cum. One spurt has hit Bradley’s knee. It makes the blue wool glisten.
“Sit so I can see your face.” The Führer presents his cock without shame. Fuery is shamed anyway. He is relieved to turn his back to the mirror, but still avoids Bradley’s eye as he lets down his trousers. He steadies himself with a hand over Bradley’s shoulder and lowers down slowly, very aware of Bradley’s intense stare towards his sweaty, sticky and very exposed crotch.
“Come here.” Bradley’s big hand grips him around the neck and pulls him in: moustachioed lips suck hungrily at his own. The Führer smells of aftershave, musky sweat and stale breath.
Fuery moves as well as he can in the tight space, pressing up and grinding down. The cock in his ass makes wet noises – the Führer’s lips press tightly against his. He clenches his ass cheeks as well as he can and Bradley finally comes, buried deep inside of him.
Mere moments after Bradley comes, Fuery is shoved off.
“No need to thank me, Master Sergeant.” Bradley sends him another piercing look.
“Wasn’t going to, Sir!” He straightens himself, lifts his glasses and uses his sleeve to dry his eyes. The paper towels by the sink work okay for drying off come and sweat.
He still doesn’t know how to feel about this exchange: it’s a mix of degradation, hurt and lust. He even feels a little flattered. He also knows he can’t tell anybody about this, ever.
There’s rapping at the door again, and voices outside. Both men manage to get their clothes in order; but there’s no hiding the smell of sex or their somewhat rumpled appearance as they step out into the booming gangway. The look of utter astonishment on Mustang’s and Havoc’s faces will forever be imprinted in Fuery’s brain.