The easiest way to destroy an enemy is to destroy those he depends upon.
Archer had all but taken down Greed himself that way, and Roy Mustang? He would be easy. So very easy.
The fact that Jean Havoc was not entirely unattractive made it easier. Oh, sure, the man never got girls—one look at his boss made it obvious why. But he was long-limbed and rangy, in far better shape than most of the desk jockeys of the military, and his wheat-blond hair looked just plain pretty with the barrel of Archer's gun nested amongst it, polished steel glinting in a sweaty forest of dusty gold.
Mustang, kneeling on the floor with his gloves stripped off and one wrist held high in each of Kimberly's deadly hands, was prettier, true. Boyishly handsome jaw set tight, eyes flinty black and blank as stone walls, trying his best not to betray a hint of suffering to his second lieutenant—but he was cracking, Archer thought, cracking probably because blue eyes were watering as Archer worked another finger in. Because Havoc was macho enough, Archer was sure, that being properly prepared, all lubed and worked up like this was an act of love, would be even more humiliating than simply being taken painfully—and, judging from the flush all down the lieutenant's strong, bowed neck, he'd been right.
And of course he'd set them facing each other, practically at eye level, each unable to avoid the other's pain. It rather had to be done.
Havoc was shaking and swearing a blue streak and tight as a vise, but when he started to choke out apologies to Mustang, Archer hissed disapproval and stuffed Mustang's gloves into his mouth, packed in tight under his tongue so he couldn't even spit them out, and then the scruffy blond head had just dropped in surrender, all bound and gagged and helpless over his commanding officer's desk.
Mustang had almost, almost flinched at Havoc's muffled yelp of protest. But he hadn't looked away, hadn't broken his own unyielding silence. No, of course Roy Mustang was too brave and good to do that. No abandoning a subordinate to suffer alone.
Of course Mustang would join him at some point. But he probably didn't know that yet. Archer had every plan to hurt him, hurt him so much he couldn't stand it, and in just a way that he couldn't do a damn thing about—because if you didn't ask and didn't tell, whoever did would bear all the disgrace.
Archer smiled, nudged the gun meaningfully against the base of Havoc's skull—because Mustang, of course, had begged him not to kill him, and this was the price he'd paid for his life—lined up, and slid in, and Havoc let out a long, stifled whine, and Kimberly laughed, and black eyes nearly, nearly cracked.
Ignition gloves soaked through, and Mustang's last hopes, Archer thought smugly, were fading.
"After me, Lieutenant," Archer whispered, "it's Crimson's turn—" and Havoc whined quailing into the gloves and Mustang visibly bit his lip—"and once he's in, I think it'll be the dear Colonel's turn too." He stroked Havoc's cheek with his free hand, still wet with lube and stinking, and felt him flinch away, felt the stretch of his jaw round impromptu gag. "Because I certainly don't trust you with me or Crimson, but you wouldn't bite your own C.O.'s dick, now would you...?"
Havoc's moan of despair came clear through the gloves, and Archer's cock twitched with glee in his ass, and Kimberly laughed and ground his hips against Mustang's shoulders—and Mustang himself, Mustang went white.