The Prisoner's Dilemma

chapter 3.

For a moment, he thought he'd gone too far. One of them actually recoiled a bit to see him touching himself, but then resumed watching like the rest with hot, interested eyes. A low jeer broke out to the right, and then a snicker; two of the men elbowing each other. They were waiting to see if he would actually do it, he realized with a sick feeling in his gut. Egging him on.

No one reached for the knife, though.

He waited until he was actually hard before unzipping his pants. He didn't want them to see he was anything but a hundred percent into this. Ed's one good eye was as round as a saucer, the one that wasn't rapidly turning into a shiner at least, and Roy had to close his own against the sight. He thought of past dates, movie stars, anything and everything he could to get himself to respond, and finally, thankfully, habit took over.

His heart thundered like a drum in his head as he took his erection out. The men watching hooted and hollered. A couple made comments about the size, some positive, some negative. Lancet, Roy noted, was doing neither, just glaring at him with a grim set to his jaw. He was watching like a hawk for any missteps, Roy recognized. As if he didn't have enough performance anxiety.

Ed grimaced as Roy stepped closer, had a wild, desperate look to his eyes. Roy wasn't sure if he was going to say something or not, so he cut him off at the pass.

"Remember, Fullmetal," he said, hoping the warning got through. "Either I stick you with this, or you get that sticker." He flicked his eyes toward the knife in the chair.

Thankfully, Ed seemed to understand. He nodded ever so slightly, though he still seemed petrified by the sight of Roy stroking his cock, right up close and personal.

"Go ahead," jeered one of the watching soldiers; Roy noted in some back part of his brain that it was one of his holdouts. It seemed they were all getting into it now, and he couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or not. "Stick it in his mouth! It's big enough, ain't it?"

"Just try it," Ed hissed, baring red-filmed teeth snapping them with an audible click. "Motherfucker, just try putting that thing anywhere near—"

If Ed bit him, not only would he be incapacitated but it might inspire the peanut gallery to more violence. Roy could already see a slight wince on the face of one of he men, and several of the others were getting retaliatory gleams in their eyes. "Someone get me some cloth," Roy ordered peremptorily, translating that movement into useful action. There was a brief rush and scuffling around his peripheral vision; Roy didn't bother to look, instead locking his gaze with Edward's as he desperately tried to keep his erection from faltering.

"Got some, sir," someone crowed, waving a (only moderately filthy) wad of linen at him.

Roy curved his lips up in a smile, and nodded towards Edward. "Gag him." And with any luck, that would derail any further bloody thoughts of mutilation. He carefully did not draw attention to the knife, while two soldiers prized Edward's jaws apart and stuffed the cloth in. Edward's protests were reduced to a muffled snarling, and Roy couldn't help but be relieved.

"Brilliantly done, Colonel," Lancet said, sarcastically, from behind him. "Now our prisoner can't even speak, let alone use his mouth in the way you so claimed you wanted to."

Bastard, Roy thought with a burst of fury, you were ready to mute him just five minutes ago! "Let that be my concern, not yours, Lieutenant Colonel," he drawled instead. "He'll be much more ready to talk shortly, and in the meantime... there are plenty of alternatives."

Roy curled his upper lip, considering his audience. He had led them all to think there would be a blow job, but that option was now off the table. Just fine by him. Perhaps a well-aimed money shot would satisfy the audience. Coming on Ed would be sticky and disgusting, humiliating for the boy (and for him as well) but not actually hurtful. He gritted his teeth and stroked faster, practically willed himself to come.

Marianna, Juliette, Susan, Sandra... Roy tried to conjure up any faces but the one in front of him, now looking horrified but resigned. Hawkeye's blonde hair made him sick right now, as did his ex-girlfriend Diana's. Lily had amber eyes too... The men behind him were starting to get restless, he noted with a tinge of panic, and that made his cock feel even number, even harder to work. This was not good.

"You gonna pork him?" piped up one of the guards. There was an instant round of jostling and snickers, and Roy would have rolled his eyes, if he weren't feeling so frantic. God, it was like being back in Basic.

"Yeah, get him onna floor!" Someone else seconded, and no, no he had lost their focus; the innovators swarmed forward and shoved him aside, eager to help. Ed shrieked and thrashed a little as rough hands tugged at the bonds restraining his already bruised wrists.

Lancet was watching with increasingly dark humor.

Roy let go of his cock and tried to muscle his way back into the situation. He had to keep control of this or it was going to get even worse. One of them was starting to displace the knife, he noted with horror. Ed was kicking his bound legs out furiously; no doubt the man wanted to threaten Ed to sit still while he was being untied.

"Excellent suggestion," he told the men, even though it really wasn't. Ed gave him a stricken look and he couldn't help but wince; realizing that Lancet was watching, he made a show of pulling on his cock again, as if it were hurting him. "Move."

He practically elbowed the guys aside and closed his own hand around the knife. They had been very close to working it free, he realized. Hell. He diverted their attention again by wrenching it free and applying it to the ropes on Ed's wrist, pleading with his eyes for Ed to just keep his hand still, not to take a swing at him.

Apparently he didn't need to worry, though. The second Ed's wrist was free someone stepped forward to claim it, whooping it up and yanking it over Ed's head like a trophy. Roy tried to work on the noose next, but it was too risky to put that blade in close to Ed's neck, so he cut the knot itself where the end of the noose was tied to the chair. The moment he did, the man holding Ed's arm up (god, Roy despised him) hauled Ed up and slung him down onto the floor.

Face down.

"Fuck him!" one of the guys holding Ed dared. Ed lashed out hard with his good arm and had it promptly intercepted, wrested behind his back and tied to the remaining tail of the noose-rope around his neck. "Fuck the little bitch up his fucking ass! You see how he went for my crotch just then!?"

No, he didn't go for your crotch, Roy thought angrily. You only wish he did. Oh hell, he had really screwed the pooch on this one. Ed was now belly down and at perfect kicking height. If he pissed them off any more, there was nothing Ed could do to protect his sides or lower back. Roy bit down on the inside of his lower lip.

This was all his fault. He never should have taken them down this road.

To make matters worse, the rest seemed to agree. They were whooping for Roy to get down his knees, take Ed's pants down; all kinds of things. Ed writhed on his belly, was toed in the side, and Roy could only stand there and watch in terror. No, don't do that, it's too soft there, if you start something bleeding—

"Fuck him!" they jeered. "Nail the bitch!"

Lancet spoke up then suddenly, coolly. His eyes were hot on Roy, and Roy swallowed hard.

"If you don't fuck him," the man drawled. "I will."

"Same here!" Someone else chimed in, and then the others followed suit, glancing back and forth amongst themselves nervously. Roy had seen enough of this kind of crowd before to tell they were all feeding off each other's machismo. Each wanted to prove he was just as game for it as the next, whether or not they were even interested in Ed.

"I get him first!" the biggest guy called out, posturing. He reached for his belt buckle.

Ed made a snarly noise then, hardly human, and Roy dropped to his knees beside him almost immediately. No, no, he would (oh hell) fuck Ed himself before he let these buffoons get to him. If any of these guys started in on him, he would probably wind up hurt rather badly. They would probably just nail him without any sort of preparation at all. And injuries down there could be very, very serious.

Once again in his life, Roy knew for a fact that there was no god. If there was, he wouldn't have to do this.

"No," he called out loudly, as he reached over to clamp down on Ed's wriggling hips. "I get him first."

Ed froze immediately when Roy's hands touched him. He looked back over his shoulder with fear in his eyes. Roy forced himself to look past that, and wormed his hands underneath to undo Ed's belt buckle and fly.

Roy's thoughts careened like a freight train going out of control. He needed lube. Didn't have any. It would hurt Ed, too much, without lube. Where could he get some? He quickly ran down the mental list of available substances down here, and his heart, if that was possible, sank even further. Could he transmute something? He didn't think Lancet would take well to him messing about with arrays. Oh hell, anything he did that showed too much concern for Ed would raise the flag on him.

His hands were beginning to sweat, from the tension. He ran them down Ed's purple-splotched back, partly to rub off the moisture, partly checking for dangerous swelling. Ed twitched, wriggled a little on the stone floor—his range of motion was limited, hogtied as he was. Roy was just as grateful for that, all things considered, as he reached under Ed's waist to start undoing the boy's fly—and discovered, with a little shock, that Ed was already hard.

But then Roy's mind flashed back to the scene he had walked in on—Ed strangling, face going slack from lack of air—and he remembered the peculiar effect asphyxiation could have on male anatomy. All the adrenaline and endorphins pumped into his system couldn't be helping. Roy himself would never have been able to hold his erection without the arousal of terror running through his body, tingling in his fingers and tensing his muscles. But it gave Roy the inspiration he needed.

Ed would never forgive him for this. Roy kicked himself. Ed was probably not going to forgive him even before this; his first priority was getting Edward through this ordeal as unharmed as possible. He held onto that thought with all his might, as he raised his head slightly, put on his best leer, and declared, "Fuck, I knew it—he's really hot for this, the little slut!"

Ed gave vent to a little moan, probably wordless even without the gag, and squeezed his eyes tightly closed. Roy ignored the noise, and seized on it with almost fevered urgency, stroking firmly and rapidly under the cover of Ed's body. Ed made a protesting noise into the gag, and thrashed as best as his bonds would allow—but biology was biology, and before long he was able to elicit a primal, involuntary spasm of the hips. Then raised his hand theatrically into the light, displaying the sticky glitter of moisture there. "Look at this—he's so wet, he's dripping."

One of the soldiers hooted. "The little fag—he's getting off on this!" Hypocritical, the man was already rubbing eagerly at his own groin.

"He must really be hard up, huh?" another jeered. "We should give him what he wants."

Oh, but Roy was already working on that—stroking Edward as quickly and satisfyingly if he could. God, if he only could get Edward to come—there would be his lube, and hopefully enough sexual endorphins to dull the pain of what was going to come, maybe relax him enough to prevent injury. Straightening up slightly from his crouch, Roy hooked an arm under Ed's hips and pulled him up to his knees, silently apologizing for the extra pressure it put on his chest and face, and began to work down his pants.

It was a struggle. Ed did not fight him as hard as he had the others, but he did not help any either. Whether it was blood, sweat, or just the tightness of the material itself, the leather resisted Roy's efforts to roll it down over Ed's thighs Roy's stomach twisted as Ed's ass was revealed; not because he was eager, but because it was covered in bruises that were already visibly purpling. Stripes. They must have lashed him with something.

"Nice and tender for you," someone remarked maliciously, and everyone laughed. "Come on, what are you waiting for? Stick it in him already!"

A chorus of agreement, goading, obscene advice. The soldiers were stamping now, almost circling Roy and Ed as they shuffled about the cell. Lancet was the only one who hung back, observing with those glittering eyes of his, and Roy couldn't help but again get the feeling that the man was plotting something. Waiting for him to mess up.

No time to waste, then. Roy switched hands again, spreading the moisture from Edward's cock over his fingers, and continued to work Edward's cock with his left hand while he pushed the slick fingers of his right into Edward's anus. "Hey—you were right," he said jibingly, doing his best to distract with his voice. "He is nice and tight. I can hardly believe it—you'd think all the sleeping around he's done would have loosened him up some."

"Lucky for us, then," someone muttered, and then "Hey, Colonel—are you going to fuck him already or not? I want a chance at that ass, even if you don't."

"Oh, I'm going to savor this," Roy drawled, privately sweating bullets. Dammit, where WAS that spot? Edward was obviously fighting his own arousal, straining with all his might not to respond to Roy's persuasive hands. He didn't want to hurt Edward, but he had no time to be gentle, and a little sting now would be preferable to the tearing agonies he would endure if they raped him dry—Roy pulled his finger out of Edward, switched to two, and plunged them back in again, seeking the prostate.

That did it. Edward jumped violently against his hand, and let out a howl that almost sounded like pain, if you didn't know better. But his cock in Roy's fist twitched even more violently, leaking fluid rapidly; Roy leaned forward, pressing his thighs against Edward's bare skin as he kept the pressure on, working the sweet spot hard.

Edward bucked violently, which had to have hurt as Roy's fingers knocked about inside him; but he came anyway, a rush of warm sticky wetness over Roy's hand even as his body clenched down hard.

Finally, SOMETHING was going to plan. Roy didn't waste any time; he straightened up and began to stroke his own neglected cock rapidly, covering it with the slickness of Ed's come. Underneath him, Ed was panting and trembling, stress and tension fighting against muscles that just wanted to melt in the onslaught of endorphins. There was not going to be a better time. "Cover me, boys, I'm going in!" Roy declared.

And he pushed.

The jeering of the soldiers was a dull droning in Roy's ears, the stink of the prison cell was numbness. Edward keened and struggled under him and he had to hold Edward's hips with both hands to keep him pulled back and tight. His blood pulsed in his throat, his face, his hands and it felt so unforgivably good, the sensation of it, that everything else was a dull counterpoint to that. It was enough that he almost, for a moment, forgot to feel shame.

That came rushing back, along with awareness of his environment, as the first rush of hot blood receded. Edward's skin, under his fingers, was twitching ceaselessly, and he was making small catching noises with every breath. With his face ground into the dirt, Roy couldn't tell if he was crying again, or beyond tears.

What am I doing?

He couldn't afford to lose his focus, not now. He was all too aware of the eyes on him; hungry and impatient, mocking and jeering, and Lancet's gaze, cold and cruel and calculating. He couldn't... he had to... continue with his plan, go forward according to the plan; the plan was everything, even if he couldn't remember right now just why....

How can this be better for him? How? How is this supposed to help us?

He felt his mouth moving, automatically, making some obscene, degrading comment to make the audience laugh, put them off. Couldn't let them see, the real him, what his hands were really doing as he stroked them over Edward's flanks in some vain, futile attempt to soothe. Tried to assess, seriously and not through the mask of his horror, how much pain he was in. Some, but not too bad, he judged. There was no damage being done, at least. No blood.

From this vantage he was close enough to see the pattern of bruises on Edward's back, his hips and rear; the purple of dying blood, rapidly shading to black. Not all serious damage was immediately evident, he knew; nor was all bleeding. Deep, ugly bruising over Ed's kidneys, his ribs, might well point to something more serious, if aggravated too much.

They could just as easily kill him by accident, as on purpose. There were no doctors here, to step in if things went badly wrong. It was Roy's job to make sure things didn't go that wrong in the first place, and if he couldn't, then no one could.

In the end, it was by looking at those bruises, the livid marks on Edward's back and flanks, that Roy was able to make himself move again. The sight of it steadied him, calmed him, and put him back on the plan. His ears unclogged, and he was able to listen to the voices around him again, mouth the proper responses, even as he gathered himself to thrust steadily into Edward's ass.

But however slowly, Edward was adjusting; and thank god that he was, because Roy wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out. It was so hold, and so much pressure, that bordered on the painful. Doing this without lube would have been out of the question, for both of them. He was panting now, bending over Edward's back until the fringe of his hair nearly brushed Edward's skin.

His orgasm came up on him quickly and he made no attempt to delay it, no attempt to drag this debacle out any further. It was enough that he added his own bodily fluids to Ed's, enough to hope that will make what came next easier.

His legs were surprisingly shaky as he stood up, began to button his pants up nonchalantly. "Aw, don't tell me you're done already!" one of the voices clamored. "Colonel, you got no stamina, you're getting old!"

"I can do better," boasted the big man, the one who had heated up the iron in the fire before; his cock was already in his hands, and Roy winced in sympathy to look at the girth.

"The fuck you can, man," his fellow scoffs, and elbows him aside. "I got dibs, I go first."

They devolved into a squabble about rank and order, size and stamina, and Roy took a few steps back. The movement brought him in line of sight with Edward, who has twisted around till the side of his face is on the floor. His eyes met Roy's, and widened in horror as a sudden understanding came on him. He pleaded desperately with his eyes; such expressive eyes, devastatingly so. It takes all the strength Roy has not to answer them, not to leap to some wild, futile defense.

I can't, Ed, Roy thought, and wrenched his eyes away. I can't do anything. I tried, I can't!

Because Lancet was still there, god damn the man, his eyes narrowing and shoulders slumping with disappointment as he saw, perhaps, that Roy was not doing anything explicitly traitorous. He took a step forward, and Roy moved quickly to meet him, heading him off before he could involve himself to egg the disgraceful scene on any further.

"Such an aloof look, Lieutenant Colonel," Roy said softly, letting the challenge hang in his voice. "You seem almost... disapproving. Does this form of interrogation not meet with your approval, somehow? After what you were prepared to do earlier?" A sudden surge of anger roared through Roy, and he fought to keep hold of himself, to let nothing of it show beyond a narrowing of the eyes.

"You have low tastes, Mustang," Lancet said flatly, the corners of his mouth twitching downwards. "I can't say I approve. And I must say, I'm not sure I could feel too comfortable working beside you, after this," he added, a bit of the cold glint returning.

"What do you mean?" Roy said, matching his flat tone.

Lancet favored him with a cruel smile. "I know perfectly well how good... friends... you were with Fullmetal before this," he murmured. "What kind of loyalty does it show, that you could turn on one of your own subordinates so completely? I think the brass would be interested in thinking that one through, as well."

A snarl lifted the corner of Roy's mouth; with effort, he converted it to a vulpine grin. "Oh, certainly, Lieutenant Colonel," he purred, furiously. "And something else to consider: if this is what I do to my friends, what must I do to my enemies? Imagine that, if you please."

Lancet's eyes widened, his mouth fell open, and he took an involuntary step back. Shaken at last, whether by Roy's word or his tone or the deadly murder in his eyes he didn't know. Or care. Try me, just try me, he broadcasted furiously. If you dare.

The moment of confrontation was broken, before it could build to ignition, by a hooting jeer from behind them; and a raised, inarticulate cry from Edward. The fury went cold in Roy, and he spun around and marched quickly toward the door.

It burned him, scalded every nerve to turn his back on Edward now, when this was happening... but Roy had no more power in this room. He could not have dared to leave before, not even to call in the authority, for fear that Edward would be maimed or dead before he could get back; recriminations would follow, surely, but it would be too late by then. But now—

The rape would probably go on for some time, and occupy their attentions in a relatively harmless (he crawled, to think of it that way, but it was the truth; it was why he had done it, the only reason why he had done it) way.

He had move fast, now, to call in the higher authorities; as disorganized as demoralized as the command structure was, they wouldn't risk such a valuable resource as an alchemist on this kind of chaotic brutality. If he could get the captain of the guard in here, the warden... properly timed, carefully spun, the onus would fall on Lancet, not on him. At least until a more careful investigation had been launched... and by then, it would be too late.

Because once it was over, when for the first time in weeks he knew where Lancet was going to be—running to report to the brass, no doubt, and not liable to pop up under Roy's elbow at any time as he had been—Roy would have a few telegrams to send. And arrangements to make.

Imagine it, while you still can, Lancet, Roy thought, smoothing down the furious shaking in his hands. Because in a few days, you won't have to imagine vengeance. You'll know.

And God help me, so will I.