mikkeneko

title: Dominance
author:

kawaiimae
for:

mikkeneko's FMA Iron Smut contest
music: Better than Ezra - Normal Town (Remix)
pairing: Roy/Scar

*

The means had been cruel, nearly everyone was able to admit, but the fact still remained -- Amestris had won, seven years ago. Now they dominated the entire continent, save a few pockets of resistance, or at the very least they claimed such. One of those pockets -- one named Scar, with a disctinctive mark on his face and a tattoo along his arm -- had recently been captured and was now under the custody of one Colonel Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist.

It had been difficult -- the tattoo apparently gave the Ishvaran the ability to do partial alchemy, forget the fact that their religion forbade it -- but it had been done. The entire military had celebrated the recent victory, encouraging the civilians to do likewise (on claims that it made them safer), and there were rumors, first of Mustang recieving a promotion, then all the others under his command as well.

If, however, they knew what Cain Fury was about to find out when he cracked open Mustang's office door to deliver some of the latest invoices of the repairs he had recently done, there may be demotions -- or court marshals -- instead.

Cain Fury also had no idea that Colonel Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist, was into bondage...let alone that he had some way to tie the larger Ishvaran to his desk.

From:

"You killed our own," Roy's voice rang out, somehow...different than usual, Cain thought. Deeper? Huskier? His thoughts were interrupted at the sound of a...paddle?!

Intrigued, Cain opened the door a little more, peering in with large eyes behind large glasses, and found himself dumbstruck at the sight before him.

Scar was naked, somehow tied to Roy's desk, bent at the waist, with a white handkerchief tied as a makeshift gag. Roy stood behind him, paddle in hand, stripped to an open (and barely on) dress shirt and black boxers.

"You nearly killed many more." That same timbre of voice, from Roy Mustang, somehow didn't fit, and yet...

"And now you are captured, ready to be punished." Fury watched on as Roy slid two fingers, without lubrication, in--

Fury couldn't quite say he'd ever watched two men do anything of the sort before -- hell, he couldn't quite say he'd seen anyone do anything of the sort before -- but he knew, he just knew, that something of that nature had to be exceedingly uncomfortable, to say the least.

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And he could hear it too -- Scar keened behind the gag, followed with some muffled muttering, probably curses in the Ishvaran language.

In, out, in, out, scissoring a bit now and then, Scar continuing to curse and murmur. Roy obviously knew what he was doing, to cause pain at the very least, and while Scar wasn't enjoying it per se...

Fury whimpered, just a little bit, as he watched. He couldn't explain why -- this looked more painful than pleasurable, to be honest -- but for some reason, this was turning him on, more than the blurred pictures of naked women Havoc used to show him when he first entered the office, more than the effects of his small hand late at night in the bathtub...

...he didn't know why, really. And it wasn't as if he really wanted to be in either of their positions--

--or did he? Here was Colonel Mustang, dominating the Ishvaran criminal (in much the same way Amestris itself had dominated Ishvar during that war seven years ago), with some sort of power, with some so control. Decidedly different from what Cain was used to.

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There was power there, Cain could see it, nearly feel it--Roy in open shirt and boxers with his pants at his ankles, as if able to walk away at any time, openly (or at least close to openly, he hadn't closed his door after all) flaunting his dominance and sexual prowess, with a much larger man tied to his desk of all things, tied and gagged and--

Cain's eyes widened further. He was barely able to believe what had just happened, but then--did Roy just put his--

Scar was screaming behind that decievingly elegant white handkerchief, but for some reason it seemed as if Cain was the only one able to hear it -- even Roy seemed unable to, pushing in mercilessly, hands on the darker one's waist, with an unreadable glint in dark not-quite-black eyes.

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In, out, in, out, twisting a bit now and then, changing the angle ever so often, Scar screaming and gasping and probably cursing much louder now though Fury couldn't really tell if they were curses or nonsense or what...

Roy was beginning to sweat, the dress shirt sticking to his chest and back, wisps of black hair sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck, eyes closed, looking positively blissful.

Cain himself gave in to the sight, undoing his pants and reaching in, taking his own growing erection in his small hand and stroking firmly, eyes never moving from the sight before him, paperwork long forgotten.

It really was like the state of the country itself, Amestris in total dominance, abusing any who attempted to make changes to the contrary, exercising control with an iron fist, using the resources of the other for its own benefit and sick, twisted pleasure.

Fury would have noted that if he wasn't slightly...distracted, as it were, still in the doorway. He would've watched, if he hadn't slid his eyes closed, the pleasure overwhelming. So close...so close... He had no idea such an image, such a painful thought, was so powerful.

Roy joined Scar in keening with one final thrust, shuddering as he came, hard, struggling not to collapse.

From:

Cain also let go, finally, after Roy did, tilting his head downwards to bite at his sleeve to cover his moan.

Scar, he noted, was still unsatisfied as Roy untied him to allow him to dress, though the gag stayed on.

He also noted that Scar's eyes, which had not been covered, had a new, different sort of look in them. They had also been full of contempt and anger, as long as Fury had seen them (usually secondhand), but now that seemed to be multiplied, amplified, by the latest show of cruelty. But since he was facing away from Roy, the colonel did not notice.

Perhaps this, too, was like Amestris' dominance. It was there, it was obviously there in that gag and the marks from the paddle and the ties, but there was resistance in the minds of the submitted. And of course, Amestris had no idea that it was going on, by any means.

Cain quickly took a tissue from his pocket and cleaned up, reclosing his pants and standing up.

*

The next day, Scar was moved to a prison facility.

That same day, Roy Mustang became Brigadier General, and Cain Fury became a Warrant Officer.

From:

PS: The fic ends here.

From:

herongale

Snappy. Pure, unrepentant porn. Porn WITHIN porn, with a little voyeurism. Points for bondage and Scar on bottom kink.

One vote from me. ♥

From: (Anonymous)

Gets my vote. It's smut. Probably the only of the contestant fics that actually understood the word "smut." And it's good smut. Hot smut. We like.

From:

cerusee.livejournal.com

Non-con, voyeurism, and politics make for very hot porn indeed. Of all the smut, this is definitely the smuttiest. This gets my vote.

From: (Anonymous)

This was just. . .yeah. *melts* one vote from me!

From:

We had lost everything. Our homes were in rubble, our lives destroyed, our dreams shattered. We, a few pathetic stragglers of what was once a grand metropolis, were all that was left. Families had been sundered, entire clans wiped out by the Devil's Arts, my people broken so completely that I could not see us rising again.

But we had to move on. Myself, my brother, my master, and perhaps a few dozen others, fled the Holy City, with nothing more than the clothes on our back and a vague, desperate hope that, somehow, Ishbala would protect us even through these trials. That, after leaving us to the white-skinned devils of Amestris, He would again turn His eyes to us, somehow give us back what we had lost.

Or, at least, that was a hope that some of us had. But my brother... his eyes were already gazing to the horizon, already contemplating how to protect us, pouring every fiber of his being to securing the future. It was that vision that enabled him to ignore the looks of fear cast in his direction, the way that mothers would gather their few children closer, as though he bore a plague that could decimate what few things we had left. But, through all of the slights and all of the ignorance, he never complained, he never flaunted the power that he had chosen, the tattooes of the Great Art carefully hidden behind a cloak.

The Great Art which had saved us. How quickly we had forgotten when he stepped to the Amestris lines, when a flash of red light scattered the devils like the righteous fury of Ishbala Himself, when my brother's red eyes blazed with anger even as tears were forming. It was something that had taken my breath away; the sheer power that he wielded, how he could turn the vile arts of our enemies against them, when even their State Alchemist scattered before his presence. An asura incarnate, a pure example of what Ishbala had restrained for so long.

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But even for all of that, even for everything that he had done for us... he had been abused. Neglected. Even though he wielded the power of Anathema for our protection, so that we would not have perished from this world... he still bore the shame of sin, still an outcast for what he had become. And since his beloved Cheryll had died, he no longer had anyone that could understand him, no one else could possibly comprehend how much of a sacrifice that he had made. The burden that he bore for our sake.

Except for me. My master had strictly forbidden me not to see my brother, claiming that 'Esar's taint will damn you as surely as it has damned himself.' But, at the same time, didn't the holy texts constantly pronounce that the bond between family, between brothers, was the most sacred of all? That nothing, nothing should ever sever it? When I had asked my master... he had no answer. He simply looked at me, with pity in his eyes. "Go," he whispered, "go if you must. But by doing so, you will share in his punishment."

"I would rather share in his punishment," I replied, "than be considered false. After everything that he has done, after everything that I owe him, how could I simply abandon him?"

"He has abandoned us, my son." The look on my master's face, the sheer anguish there... how could he possibly understand? His brothers were already in the arms of Ishbala, safely gathered in Paradise. But mine...

"He needs me." I frowned. "If he is to be abandoned for being our protector, then at the least, he will not be the only one. We are still hunted," I reminded him, my voice growing more and more strained, just a hint of fear passing through me. If my brother were to leave us, then who would protect us from the Devil's Arts? We had, possibly, three combat-ready men among us, myself included. Entire cities had been levelled by one demon, what could so few possibly do? "We need him as much as he needs me."

Sadness gripped his face. "I have already given you my benediction."

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"But not your blessing." Frustration filled me; this was my brother, and I was just going to go see him! Why was this driving such a wedge between us?

"No... no, you do not have my blessing." He stood up from his cushion, and offered me a cup of neeyla, the drink of farewell. "If you go to see him, then you shall never have it, or the blessings of Holy Ishbala. There are reasons that the Great Art is forbidden."

I leapt to my feet. "And what are those reasons? If it were not for the Great Art, we would already be gathered to Ishbala! If not for my brother, then we would be smoldering in the ruins of the Holy City!"

My master's reply stunned me. Softly, so softly that I could scarcely hear him, he whispered, "You say this as though it is a blessing to be alive."

"What?" A part of me was amused by how dead my voice sounded. "How can you say such a thing?"

"It is the will of Ishbala that we live through out appointed lives and no longer. Living beyond that, extending one's life with the Great Art, puts you beyond Ishbala's grace or mercy. It is to be forsaken." He strode to the flap of his tent and stepped outside, beckoning me to follow.

"But it is written that nothing can remove us from Ishbala's grace! That it is infinite and beyond understanding!" I chased after him, demanding answers. How dare he say that my brother was beyond redemption? No matter what taboo or statute he broke, wasn't the grace of Ishbala His most beloved trait, right after His mercy?

My master looked up at the stars, stroking his moustache contemplatively. "No... it is written that those who seek Ishbala's grace shall find it. By using the Great Art, one is rejecting Ishbala and everything He stands for. But, despite all of that, despite the horrors and sins accompanying it... it is still possible to find Ishbala's grace." He closed his eyes. "Perhaps, someday, Esar shall come to see this. If he can put aside his power, if he could be brought to see that it is not necessary... perhaps, then, he shall be a part of our people once more."

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I could feel a broad smile crossing my face. "That's it!" Relief poured through my body; my master was giving me his blessing to see my brother! He was giving me a reason to see him! And if I could succeed, then... then, perhaps, my brother would be willing to put aside the power he had, after it was no longer need, and he could become a child of Ishbala once more. "I'll speak with him right away."

"My son." My master took one last breath of the crisp night sky, then turned to face me. "I must warn you. Before you attempt to make him see the error of his ways, ask him what price he paid for the power he wields. If he is willing to tell you the truth, then there is still hope. But if not... then he truly has become one of the Devil's own."

"He'll say. I know that he will." I gave a brief bow, then spun on my heel, grinding the sand beneath my boot. "He hasn't gotten so far. He wishes only to use his power for good, and after that... then he'll put it aside. He's unscathed, through all of this."

"Unscathed, perhaps, but not unchanged." I could almost feel the look of concern from my master. "I pray that he will not corrupt you."

I didn't respond. I was too happy, too ecstatic, at getting permission to bother with it. I dashed through the camp, not stopping until I reached the outskirts, at the small, tattered tent that my brother called his own. I breezed inside, parting the flap and bowing slightly. "Brother!"

He had been reading, reclining on a cushion with one of the few books he had managed to save from the fires. Slowly, his red eyes looked up at me. "You shouldn't be here." His voice was filled with concern. "If it was known that you had seen me-"

"Master knows, and I have his blessing." I sat down on the floor opposite of my brother.

For a long moment, he gazed at me, contemplating, his red eyes seeming to pierce through my soul.

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"I see." He sighed, and put the book aside. "I suppose that he put a condition on his blessing?" His tone was resigned, almost.

"Just one." I looked away, not sure of how to phrase it. It had seemed like such an easy thing, at the time; just to ask the question and then back away. But now, with his eyes on me, waiting and expectant... "What... what price did you pay, for using the Great Art?"

A small, humored chuckle escaped my brother's lips, and he leaned back. "I see... so he wants to turn even you against me..."

"No, that's not it." I leaned forward. "I want to help you, Brother! I want to bring you back among our people, just like you used to."

"Among our people?" I wished, at that moment, to know what was so funny. "My dearest brother, how many people are left among us?"

Confused, I briefly counted. "Perhaps a few dozen?"

"A few dozen." He shrugged aside his brown cloak, exposing the loops and sigils of the Great Art that had been emblazoned on his body. "The price I paid for my power was the lives of our people. Hundreds of lives are trapped within me now." His eyes bored into me. "Their lives are what protect us, now. I am nothing more than a vessel for that power."

"A... vessel? For our people?" None of this was making sense! "But how... why?"

"You already know the answer to that question." He closed his eyes, resigned. "I did it because I wanted to bring Cheryll back first, and to save our people second." He slowly shook his head. "The Astral Elixir... it's within my grasp, now. Quite literally." His eyes slid open and he opened his right palm, showing it to me. "With enough lives, my body would become the Elixir itself, and the power would be mine to command."

Horrified, I whispered, "So that is why the Great Art is forbidden."

"Indeed." He closed his hand. "Even now, the power's pulsing through my veins, trapped in these arrays, burning and wanting to be set free." He gave a small smile. "Come here. Feel. There are still enough lives captured that you can feel the heat of their anger."

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Fascinated, I stretched a trembling hand towards his arm, briefly touching one of the lines before drawing back, hissing softly. It burned, like a fire that was slowly consuming him, just barely captured and controlled. "Brother..." It was horrible, but yet at the same time, so enticing; so much power, but despite all of that, he was still him, he had not been consumed by it. "What does this mean?"

His eyes slid shut again. "To save some, more had to be gathered and killed. Both our people, and the others. But now, for so long as those lives last, I will be able to protect those that remain. Such is the burden of the Great Art."

Slowly, carefully, I reached down again, pressing fingers against bronzed skin, tracing the burning lines of power. "But that's what you had to do." I could almost see it, could almost see with the vision and clarity of my brother. Almost. "If you had not gotten these lives, then all of us would have died. It was a hard decision, but one that had to be made."

That smile returned once more. "Perhaps. But that does not matter. There is no longer such a thing as a 'Great Art.' Everything, every aspect of alchemy, belongs to the Devil now. And I, too, am his." The smile saddened. "Thank you, for having hope in my redemption. But I am too far gone now, I have killed too many to be a part of this society once more. You, however..."

"My place is with you." My hands slid down to grasp his hand, spreading clenched fingers. "The bond between brothers, our bond, is not something that I'm going to give up." My face creased into a frown. "I will never let you go."

"For that, I am glad." His face was soft, his smile warm.

"Brother..." Another question nagged at my mind. "What else have you given up?"

"Everything. Every earthly comfort and companionship."

"Now that Cheryll has died?" My voice was soft, as well.

"Yes... without her, I am alone in the world. And I couldn't bring her back..."

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I surprised my self with how intense my voice was. "You aren't alone, Brother! I can be there for you."

Slowly, softly, he smiled. "And I gave up every pleasure for the Art, too. Remember?" He shrugged his cloak aside, baring himself to me. At the part of him that he had lost. "What could you do for me, my dearest brother? I have lost too much for you to help now."

My mind whirled; I could feel his sorrow, his loss, and there was nothing I could do. Nothing at all... or was there? "Brother... you can use me."

"What?" For the first time, I had honestly surprised him.

"I can still feel, Brother. I can still... be like that. Perhaps, if you were to touch me, feel me... it could sooth some of your pain?" I shook my head; that wouldn't work, what kind of idiot was I being? "I... nevermind. I just want to help, but..."

"No..." His voice was soft, soothing, somehow. "You truly want to help, my brother. And perhaps you are right." His smile returned. "It has been so long since I have seen someone in true pleasure that I have almost forgotten it." He took a breath. "Here. Show me."

Never in my life had I been so nervous. I shrugged off my clothes as quickly as possible, fumbling with the loose flaps until I was just as bare as he. I trembled slightly; the night air was cool, and the way my brother was staring at me...

"Lay down." He stood up and gestured at the bed, and I obeyed instantly, closing my eyes and bracing for it. At least, until his soft voice whispered, "There's no need to be afraid, my dearest brother. I won't hurt you." And then I felt his hands on my shoulders.

It was burning. Even though his hands were soft and untainted, somehow, that same burning sensation was there. But even still, it felt right; I stopped shivering, no longer cold, no longer as afraid. "My dearest brother..." His hand slid down my chest, and I could almost feel his inquisitive gaze, following the line of my heavy mucles, tracing along the ribs, heat and fire with every motion.

I couldn't stop a groan. The touch... it was soft, yes, but possessive, warm and wanting, and it was beyond my means to resist it. I felt him trace over my chest, hand brushing over now-hardened nubs, drawing another groan out of me as I started panting; the heat was too much, it was hard to draw in air, hard to do anything more than feel.

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And over it all was my brother's voice, controlled but with an edge of lust to it. "I see... so that is what it must be like..." His hand dipped lower, feeling the muscles of my stomach, sliding over skin that was now slick with sweat, fire starting to flow along my nerves, liquid pleasure building up in me. I gasped and groaned with each motion, leaning my head back, exposing myself to my brother's scrutiny, to his obvious approval. "Tell me, my brother..." His voice was heated now, and he leaned over to whisper directly in my ear, "How does this feel?"

"Hot... I-incredible... like my body's burning up, but feeling so good... Like I want to..." I groaned; each word brought him a little closer, a little further down, ever nearer to my now-straining erection. "P-please, Brother, touch me there..."

A low chuckle. "Of course." And he did.

Nothing, nothing in the world felt like that. It was heat, so intense that I was burning, but pleasure so sharp that I went slack, unable to move from just how good it felt. Incredible, absolutely incredible, and my body sprawled out, legs spread and arms limp, inviting him to touch me more, to see what more he could make me do.

And then he started stroking. Hard and fast, his red eyes burning into me, so obviously driven by unrequited passion that I could feel the power and lust radiating from him, nearly consuming me. Each stroke, each touch, felt so good, and he wasn't slowing down, wasn't stopping the touching, wasn't letting me do anything more than whimper his name. "My brother..." His voice was just as hot as his touch, and it drove me mad to hear it like that, so unlike himself. "If I keep doing this... will you scream for me?"

"Anything! Anything!" Anything at all to keep him touching me, to keep his blazing grip on me. And holy Ishbala, I never knew, I never knew that he could be so good, so harsh, so possessive all at once, the fires of passion usually kept under control. My hands slid to his back, grabbing onto the blazing sigils and holding tightly. I was so close now, so very, very close, every muscle in my body clenching and tensing, whimpering and moaning as he kept driving me to the edge, faster and faster...

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"B-Brother! Please!" I clutched onto him, breathing him in, begging him for more. More and more, to be set on fire with his grip and his voice, consumed by his passion, touched over and over again, soft hands tracing over my body, sliding over my skin, setting every nerve aflame, and always, always, those red eyes boring into me, watching the helpless looks of pleasure on my face...

With a scream of his name, I toppled over the edge, white-hot pleasure blinding me, my body spasming and shaking from the intensity of it all. One of his arms wrapped around my waist as the other continued stroking me, holding me until I rode out the waves of sheer ecstacy rocking through me. Slowly, so very slowly, the heat and intensity started to drain away, starting to cool in the chilling air.

One hand, warm now, brushed the sweaty hair out of my face. My brother gazed down at me, his soft smile still unchanged. "I see," he whispered after a moment, "so that is what I have given up."

"B-Brother..."

Abruptly, he held me close, pressing those warm arrays into my skin, his right arm holding me so closely. "I see... that I have given up more of Ishbala's gifts than I had originally considered." His voice was soft. "And my punishment fits the crime... my dearest brother, even if I can no longer live a normal life, there is no reason for you not to. You, at least, have a complete body, untainted by the Devil's Art." Urgently, he whispered, "If you truly love me, if you truly want this bond to continue... then live your life, as you should. So long as there are people like you still around, as long as you hold on to your faith and hope... then Ishbal has not truly fallen."

"Brother?" I couldn't hide the concern in my voice.

"My dearest, dearest brother..." He held me close, stroking me now, soothing. "You have given me something that I thought I had lost. And for the hope and the memories that you've given me... I will give you anything. Anything at all." He squeezed, pressing ever closer. "Even if it costs me my life, I will make sure that you will have that life. Let me be corrupted, and leave the vengeance to Ishbala."

I clutched onto him, pulling him close. "What kind of life would that be? How could I live on without you?"

"You will find a way." He smiled. "But that doesn't matter now." Surprising me, he leaned on me, resting his slight weight against my muscular frame. "For now... for right now, we can just let this moment last."

"'A single moment can be the greatest blessing of Ishbala?'" I chuckled; even now, I held onto the teachings.

"No, my brother. 'Family is a gift that should never be lost.'"

From:

herongale

This story has a polished feel, great pacing, and is a very nice take on the challenge theme. The dialogue is occasionally stilted, and there are some small problems here and there, but with minor editing I think you could post this in primetime.

This gets my second vote. ♥

From: (Anonymous)

This one I think has the best storytelling. Voting for this one, yupyup.

From: (Anonymous)

First vote! So pretty and IC!

From: (Anonymous)

Second Vote!

(deleted comment)

From: (Anonymous)

Best pr0n vote from me. I really can't complain. Vote 2 from me

From: (Anonymous)

I enjoyed reading this one the most, excellent prose. Vote from me.

From:

lily22.livejournal.com

Wait no, I want to vote for this. *is killed*

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Sometimes when he slept, he could vaguely remember desperately missing having all of his senses. Anyone in the situation he had been in would, he told himself. Not being able to nuzzle the fur of a kitten or feel the warmth of another's touch, not being able to smell or taste, to sleep or dream or even tell if he was on balance; the idea of it frightened him. How had he endured the time he'd spent locked in a body of metal?

Those were his dreams some nights. Other nights, he saw more terrible things in his mind's eye. There was a country and it was burning, dying, collapsing in on itself. Thousands of voices screaming in agony -blaminghimblaminghimbutwhathadhedone?-. He always woke from those dreams drenched in sweat. Those couldn't be his memories, could they? Had he seen countries fall during those years? Had he stood by while people had suffered?

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If they weren't his memories, whose were they?

Some nights he was merely a spectator to the destruction, other nights he was lying in the middle of it, dying along with the country. And on the nights that were the worst, he felt every single life die with his own body -thisbodyhisbrothergavehimatwhatcost-. He would writhe in pain and scream and scream but nobody would come for him.

His brother was gone, how could he save him?

Punishment, punishment, the voices around him screamed sometimes -wediedforyou-.

But what was he being punished for?

On these nights, he felt more trapped than even when he dreamed of being sealed in armor.

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He dreamed of being older, but not being able to see his brother's face. Shadowed figures haunted him, taunted him, tortured him. A man with a maniacal grin threatened to break his body by exploding him.

And then there was the scarred man.

His face sometimes hidden from him by his subconscious, but he could remember red eyes and the stark contrast of the scar that criss-crossed his forehead against his dark skin, and the hard jawline. This was one dreamfigure he didn't fear. Somehow, he knew this one was safe.

As he dreamed again about toothy, terrifying grins and a thousand voices blaming him, the scarred man saved him once. He had been laying on the ground, back bent in horror at all the sheer agony coursing through his veins, and the scarred man's visage had appeared above him. Huge arms had slipped beneath his body and he was suddenly craddled to a heavy chest. The pain stopped. The pain had stopped.

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The scarred man carried him to safety as he shuddered in relief, pressing his pale forehead into the dark crook of the man's neck. He felt himself come to rest somewhere soft, safe. Yes, safe, at last. The man had laid him down somewhere and, with a very strange, rough tenderness belied by his size and invisible edges, he swept the hair from his eyes.

But now another gaping hole yawned open within him, and that feeling of missing sensation came roaring back. The scarred man had stood back up to leave, and he couldn't bear the thought of him being gone. His hand shot out before he could even think, grabbing at the man's thick wrist.

Don't. Go.

He pulled the man down next to him, and was immediately engulfed in warmth, scent. The scarred man smelled like the sun, like the baked stone of the desert. He buried his face in the man's chest, inhaling and reveling in the comfort it brought him. The man's hands were on his body, touching him almost curiously. He nodded, he wanted it hewantedthisandhecouldn'tsaywhy, and shivered as his skin was explored.

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The palms were rough and firm, but he wasn't afraid, he knew the man wouldn't hurt him. He smiled at the thought of someone admiring this body, it was the one his brother had given his everything for. He could feel this touch now, because of that.

The scarred man seemed as though he somehow understood. His touches weren't reverent, but they were very near to it.

The voices screamed at him again -prideinthatbodywediedfor!-, but then he realized it was him screaming. The scarred man's arms were around him, his weight on him and he calmed again. Ah, he was so warm, too warm, hot, burning...

It was as though he'd been lost in the sands and was dying of thirst, and the clouds had opened upon him. He ran his hands over the body above him and drank in every sensation of touching him. The man's breath was in his ear and he answered with his own gasps. This feeling was so foreign to him, but he wanted to experience it. He had to fill that maw inside of him with sensation of every sense. The color of his skin, the smell of him, his touch... taste...

He sucked on the man's shoulder and salt and earth filled his mouth. The scarred man reciprocated, leaving a line of wet trails down his chest.

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The man's breath ghosting over the dampness left a confusion of hot and cold tattooed on his skin.

A hand was on him now, stroking, and he cried out, clinging to the scarred man's shoulders. It was almost too much, a fine edge that made him tense, relax, arch, move, move, move...

The hand was gone and he moaned in frustration nonodon'tleavemelikethis!, but then another sensation overtook him. The scarred man's fingers were inside him. Inside his body! Something about that brought some dim flash of memory and he shuddered as he clung to the man's shoulders, shifting his hips to get a better angle.

It burned, but he enjoyed it. It was feeling. As long as he felt, it was all right to hurt. Feeling was all that mattered. His head was thrown back and he was gasping, clamping down on the fingers inside him...

He found himself back in the man's arms, and something strange was being murmered in his ear. He couldn't understand. It was like hearing him through water, he couldn't understand, he couldn't understand.

"I don't understand," he said, though he never remembered speaking outloud in these dreams before.

The man surged inside him and he choked on a gasp.

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The world was pain for a moment, and he tensed against it. But, it wasn't the pain of people dying. No, no, this was different, so he welcomed it, embraced it. He moved with the man as he started a swift rhythm within him. He folded his knees to the man's sides and just moved, riding him though the man was the one above him, strangled noises rushing between his teeth.

He suddenly realized what the scarred man had said. Forgiveness. This was forgiveness. Everyone forgave him. He must forgive himself, forgive his brother, forgive the scarred man, forgive everyone... forgive, forgive

forgive...

The rhythm went ragged, he felt ragged and he shouted as he came against the man's taut stomach, a name he shouldn't have remembered.

"Scar...!"

The man rumbled "Alphonse...!" into his ear, then arched and froze within him, coming in a warm rush.

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