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velvet mace

Crush


I hate Mustang. I hate his condescending attitude. I hate his teasing smirk. I hate the way he always makes me feel like I've been caught in a jam jar like an interesting bug. I hate having to report to him.

Every time, I go into that office with my papers and my requests all neatly typed, thank you, absolutely secure and confident. Inevitably, within five minutes of the door shutting, he has me either wanting to put my automail in his face or else wanting to run away like a little boy.

I fucking hate the man. No one else does that to me.

So why did I expect today to go differently?

"So," said Mustang, looking utterly cool and collected behind his over-sized desk. "Is it true?" He laced his fingers under his chin and god damn fuck it all SMIRKED at me.

My automail had already closed in a fist and I didn't even have a clue what the insult was. "Is what true?" I asked.

"That you have a crush on me," he replied back in his smooth baritone.

Hawkeye might as well have shot me in the back of the head for the stupid expression my face took on. For a second, I COULDN'T respond, and that second was all the bastard needed to see right through my skin to my soul.

"It's perfectly normal, you know," said Mustang. "At your age having crushes are just something that happens. We all have had them, even myself when I was young. Of course, I crushed on women."

I finally found my mouth and managed to gargle out, "I DO NOT! I—NOT—Get over yourself, huh!" My face was feeling hot. "My report speaks for itself, I got a train to catch." I stood up.

So did Mustang. "I didn't dismiss you yet."

I was aimed at the door so I just kept in that position. I hate it when I fucking blush.

I heard his footsteps behind me. "Did I embarrass you?"

"Like you fucking could." I walked towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"If we aren't going to talk about my report, I REALLY have nothing to say to you, shit Colonel."

"Tut. Language, Fullmetal. Sit down."

"Fuck off." But I stopped.

"That was an order."

GOD DAMN I hate that man, but he fucking outranks me. So I turned around, hanging my head down, hoping my long bangs will hide the flush. The flush of rage, right. Because the man is pissing me off JUST THAT MUCH.

I threw myself back on his couch. "Okay, I'm sitting. Now are we going to talk about my report or do I have to listen to you talk about your past love life."

I could see his shoes, shiny and perfect, pacing the floor a bit. He walked over to the door and what the FUCK?

"The others are out at lunch right now," said Mustang.

"Yeah, sounds like a good idea. Why are you locking the door?"

"In case they come back early, I wouldn't want you to be embarrassed by them walking in on our conversation."

"Why the hell would I be embarrassed—our conversation will be about my REPORT right?"

"You are blushing," said Mustang. "And look you won't even meet my eye. But you shouldn't feel bad about this. I admit, I'm very handsome. It's not surprising you should feel interest in me."

Again my mouth deserted me. I just had NOTHING to reply to that. Mustang's pacing began to remind me of a hawk circling its prey. "I feel it's important to smooth things out for those under me. I wouldn't want this crush to interfere with your work after all. So as your commanding officer, I thought it would be a good idea to talk about it. Get your feelings out in the open and deal with them, so that you can move past them."

There was no way in hell I was going to admit to Mustang I had a crush on him. He couldn't make me. So I said nothing.

"After all, we wouldn't want this interfering with your job."

The hawk swooped in. I watched the edge of his uniform skirt sway a bit as he approached. I FUCKING hate Mustang's uniform. Like I should be intimidated just because of the gold stars and the bands across his shoulders.

And then just as I knew things couldn't get more awkward, my own fucking body betrayed me. I felt a sickening twitch down in my groin. I sat forward and pressed my legs together, but my thighs confirmed movement and an ever growing, difficult to hide presence.

He stood right in front of me, and I had a choice of looking at his feet, which would make me seem humble, craning up to see his face, which would just reveal my blush more, or staring straight ahead, into his crotch. No. That wasn't an option either. I opted to look humble.

He put a hand on my head and stroked my hair. Fuck. I was hiding a huge hardon between my tense thighs. If I moved, it might spring free. I was stuck.

"The nice thing about crushes," Mustang said in that deep almost musical voice of his. "Is that they are just a build up of unfulfilled hormones. Crushes disappear pretty quick when those hormones are released."

"Are you saying I should get myself a date and this will go away?" Oh fuck, I just admitted I had a crush.

Mustang chuckled. "Exactly."

"I don't have time for dating." I hunched over further. "And stop playing with my hair."

"I do believe you are hiding something from me, Fullmetal." He sat down next to me on the couch and his hand slid over my thigh.

I threw myself sideways, somehow ending up on my back on the couch with him crawling half over my legs. "A date might not even be necessary," he said. "I can take care of this for you right now."

I froze, ready to kick but somehow not able to because his hand found my personal traitor and squeezed.

"I do this for your own sake," Mustang purred. "Just release the hormones and the crush will go away, just like magic."

Coherent thought was completely gone. The bastard had me. Utterly had me. I didn't even move as he jerked my belt free and undid the fastenings to my pants. All I remember doing is staring at his face and hoping that he would do what I thought he was going to do.

"Relax," he said, lifting up my hips with one hand, and pulling my pants until they were to my thighs. I was really glad at that moment that he had locked the door. I had never felt so exposed.

I worried that he might laugh, or say some joke about my cock. Not that my cock is small or strange or anything. I've seen enough other men in the showers and bathrooms to know I'm respectably endowed. I expected that he'd talk about it in some boring way. I hoped he'd continue to squeeze and stroke it, but he didn't do any of those things.

He leaned down and took it in his mouth. It was the most incredibly pleasureable thing I'd ever felt. Hot, wet, stimulating. And the way he looked with his face buried in my crotch just overloaded me. He stroked me with his tongue in a way that made up for all the annoying things he's said to me, ever. In that moment, I utterly forgave him for every slight, put down, and waste-of-time mission he'd ever given me.

It took almost twenty seconds of that to get me to come. Well? So? It's not like I'd ever had anyone give me a blow job before. It was hot.

Mustang leaned up on his elbows, licking his lips. "There, did that release your hormones properly."

If he was asking if I was still crushing on him—the answer was I had no clue at that point. I was too overwhelmed by surprise and pleasure.

"Now," said Mustang, in a matter of fact way. "Proper etiquette for these things dictates that you return the favor."

My mind tumbled over that statement. Yeah, it made sense. Equivalent trade and all. I should suck him, too. It was a daunting idea, though. I mean, what did it taste like? Sweat and pee would be my guess. Those were two things really didn't have that much interest in savoring.

As for when he came—I shuddered. Out of curiosity, I had once tasted my own come. It wasn't an experience worth repeating—ever. But Mustang had swallowed, so did that mean I had to, too? He probably wouldn't want me spitting it out on his couch, or the rug either. And he wouldn't want it on his uniform, and fuck if I wanted it on my clothes. Shit, what had I gotten myself into?

I was so lost in my own considerations, that it took me a bit to notice that he was pulling down my pants. It took me even longer to realize that me being naked was utterly unnecessary for a blow job. Mustang had just given me an awesome one and he hadn't even taken off his jacket.

"Why are you taking off my clothes?"

"Returning a favor doesn't have to mean doing the same thing," said Mustang. He tossed my shoes out into the room and removed my pants completely.

"Well," I said. "Then I'm lost. I'm not a girl, I don't have a—you know—hole."

He seemed to find that funny. He brought out a small bottle and poured it carefully over his fingers before snapping the lid back down. Then he proceeded to remind me that yes indeed I DID have a hole.

It felt just about as good as you'd think having someone jab their fingers up your butt would feel. Suddenly the idea tasting his sweaty cock took on a new appeal. He leaned over me and whispered, "Relax, relax, it will feel good I promise."

"I'm sure it will, as soon as you take those fingers out."

Now I admit I am naive in certain areas, but even I knew that he wasn't going to be content with fingering my colon. How had I gotten myself in this position? Sure the blow job was awesome, but was it really worth this? And whose idea was it to give me a blow job in the first place? I never asked for it.

I suddenly started feeling rather used.

Mustang must have sensed that because he started mouthing my cock again. And oh it was just like before—. Just amazing. And even those damn fingers up my ass stopped feeling quite so wrong. In fact, they started feeling quite right. I found myself bucking my hips as much to feel them move as to push more of my hardening cock into his mouth. He began stroking his fingers in and out rubbing the inside of my ass, and god it was the hottest damn thing I'd ever felt.

Damn it, I was going to come again soon—all he had to do was continue doing that.

So, of course, the bastard stopped. He looked up and smiled at me. And then the hand was gone and I was left empty and bobbing uselessly in the air, evaporation rapidly cooling my cock. Dang it, I was horny enough that it almost hurt. I reached over to help myself, but he slapped my hand away.

"This is my turn, Fullmetal."

"Well, get on with it—" was all I could say. His cock couldn't feel that much worse than the fingers had when he first poked them in.

He unzipped his fly, pulled himself out and lubed himself up. It began to look like he wasn't planning on undressing at all and the inequality struck. Here I was half naked, showing him parts of my body that I hadn't shown ANYONE outside a medical setting, and he wasn't going to show me a damn thing more than he absolutely had to.

The man is a consummate bastard.

I didn't even get to see that much of his cock, because as soon as he'd oiled it, the bastard leaned forward and pushed it in. No I didn't see much of it, but I sure got to intimately know it. He was freaking huge.

I remember trembling, not because I was afraid or anything, because I wasn't. It was just some sort of automatic nervous response to being fucking impaled by Mustang's monster. But the bastard seemed to think that I needed some cuddling because he pulled me up into his arms and began kissing me and murmuring into my ear.

If I could have talked, I'd have told him that if he just took his fucking cock out of my ass I'd stop shaking. But I couldn't say anything. He reached a hand between us and started rubbing my cock. His hand was still slippery with oil, and it felt good. Soon enough I felt myself relaxing and the cock didn't feel quite as bad.

That's when he started moving. He laid me back down, and pushed one knee up with his hand. "Stroke yourself," he said suddenly. I did. I realized it was because he wanted to use both his hands to hold my legs apart and up so he could fuck me easier. That seemed selfish of him, but I stroked myself anyway because as long as my cock was getting some, getting bludgeoned in the asshole didn't feel as bad.

It took him a hell of a lot longer than twenty seconds to finish. In fact, I think he got close a couple of times and then paused, deliberately drawing it out. By then the pain had receded to a comfortable background noise, just enough to keep me from coming even though I was pumping my own cock, but not so much that I wasn't enjoying the whole thing.

Yeah, I enjoyed it. I think I would have enjoyed it a little more if it had, say stopped after the first ten minutes, but I enjoyed it.

Finally though he spoke gruffly at me, "You can come now."

As though I'd been waiting all this time for his permission. He moved a hand from one knee to grab my cock and pump it a few times, and what do you know, just that little bit of difference, of it NOT being my own hand, took me over the top. I came all over my shirt, my jacket, hell, I even got a few drops on my fucking face. You want to know who didn't get a speck on him? Mustang. Bastard AIMED me away at the last minute.

He sped up, and for a moment it seemed like he was trying not just to get his cock in me, but his goddamn hips as well. Then he shuddered and pulled away.

He took out a handkerchief and wiped off his hands and cock, then pushed himself in and zipped up. He wasn't even all that sweaty, just a bit damp around his forehead.

I on the other hand was drained and limp and now covered with come and oil. And half naked.

"The others will be coming back from lunch soon. I think we can reschedule your report for tomorrow." He then sat behind his desk and began looking through his paperwork as if nothing at all had happened.

Yeah, I did pull myself together, and managed to not only get out of there, but all the way back to the dorms for a good LONG shower, without being noticed. Equivalent exchange that was NOT. That was him fucking having his way with me from start to finish, and I'd gone along with it.

It had, however, solved one problem. I no longer had a crush on the bastard. I suppose I should thank him for that.