Categories > Anime/Manga > Full Metal Alchemist
Planting the Seed- Scar/Roy
1 ReviewsScar sizes up Roy Mustang and discovers that fire is not the only weapon in the Flame Alchemist’s arsenal.
Prompts: primary prompt was 'popcorn', secondary prompt was 'trace'
Rating: R or Mature
Warning: One sided yaoi attraction, voyeurism to some het action, sexual situation
Summary: Scar sizes up Roy Mustang and discovers that fire is not the only weapon in the Flame Alchemist’s arsenal.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters and settings were created by Hiromu Arakawa and are distributed by Square-Enix, Viz and Funimation. I'm just borrowing them solely for my own amusement and hopefully your enjoyment. Done all for fun, not for profit.
Notes: Comments and feedback would be loved and greatly appreciated. Many thanks in advance for reading this fic!
Planting the Seed
Even here where every stranger is suspect, a silent killer slips near the classroom window, shielded only by shadows in a brick corner wall and the glare of the blinding sun.
So Flame Alchemist, it begins here. While they are but mere children.
The scarred man lowers his glasses. Vengeful red eyes gleam with disdain. White hair, dark skin, the pale x-mark on his forehead, he should be more noticeable on these grounds, a fugitive easily detected, but praise Ishbala he remains unseen.
The irregular structural nook is tight. The desert assassin presses himself further in, trying to fit his tall muscular body in the narrow triangular space. He feels the coarse brick scratch his left shoulder beneath his jacket. The somber figure pays it no mind, his gaze fixed on his target. He breathes deeply and lies in wait, brooding and watchful. He’s close enough to clearly see his mark through the glass and just far enough not to attract the sniper’s eager hound.
Your end draws near alchemist. Devil among men. Your vile existence will soon be cleansed from God’s earth. You burned Ishbal and my kinsmen to cinders as they screamed and begged for their lives. You had no mercy then, and I will show you none when your hour of judgment finally comes.
But for now the dark man was patient and observant, and stood quietly still.
Know the enemy’s strengths, find his weaknesses, and learn his habits. A basic plan. Straightforward, effective, uncomplicated. Scar clenches his right fist, containing the malevolent red glow under the intricate black tattoo.
Then the righteous hammer of God shall shatter your skull and send you to answer for your sins.
Two words drift to Scar’s ears. Career Day. Four men and three women huddle and whisper by the side of the blackboard. A doctor, farmer, baker, glassblower, a shoemaker, the teacher and the school’s headmaster, Scar quickly surmises. None of them worth more than a passing glance. They had each taken their turn at the head of the class and spoken to the group of small children about their professions, and passed out treats in blatant attempts to barter their attention and maintain order.
Now they all look up at Roy Mustang, the famed Flame Alchemist, in his blue and gold uniform and polished black boots. All eyes are held rapt as hellfire spews from the colonel’s white gloved fingertips.
Scar studies his face.
Dark hair and eyes, a color so deep it looks almost unnatural to an Ishbalan. Fair smooth skin, not seasoned or weathered, and clean of the customary mustache and beard commonly sported by senior officers. A young man’s face. His jaw line is strong; he is disciplined and determined, set on his goals. Scar’s eyes traces over it again from jaw to chin. He momentarily wonders if Mustang’s face had ever been pierced with stubble, but decides it is a passing thought of no consequence.
He is not Amestrian, or perhaps, not fully. The alchemist’s lineage is written in his eyes. The scarred man reads them. The nap of his neck tingles and he cannot hold his gaze there for long. Irked by his unease, Scar pulls his fiery gaze lower.
Mustang’s lips curl as he speaks and tugs on the edge of his glove. Like a man with too much confidence and not enough restraint. Crisp white shirt, buttoned to the top and the collar cradling his throat. Pressed and pristine uniform; clean gold buttons, shining insignias pinned straight. Pride in his appearance, pride in himself. Scar’s eyes gravitate back to Mustang’s. The dark pools are so deep and conceal much, like an abyss that one cannot fully emerge from, but now Scar finds the look in them arrogant and smug. Scar looks deeper, drawn in by the flickers beneath his egocentrism, and brazenness, and sees traces of youthful wistfulness and doubts and regrets long buried and guarded beneath them, a stark contrast to his polished words and easy smile.
Scar’s eyes narrow. Mustang is a man of two faces, two natures that he can interchange to achieve his will. He is a trickster, and a shrewd and calculating one.
The children are hypnotized by his accursed fire. It streams and swirls before them, loops, fans out and changes shape. Galloping horses, flying birds, toy bears, dogs, cats, blooming flowers – /flowers?/-entrance and amuse them, and they gleefully call out for more. The alchemist’ smile broadens. He gladly caters to each request with a warm smile and eyes that gleam with pride.
Scar’s dark skin prickles. Shrieks and squeals begin to grate his ears. Seething, his eyes blaze with rage, and one thought runs through his mind. A weapon being used to entertain children, to lure them into the blasphemous realm of alchemy, and twist their trusting minds to serve the masters of war.
Mustang quiets their excited outbursts with a gloved fingertip to his lips and two simple, persuasive words – watch this- and redirects his flames to heat what he tells them are corn kernels in aluminum bags. The children hear the popping sounds and become enthralled again. Scar cranes his neck to see what vile thing the alchemist has produced for them now. He sees them clamor around the officer with outstretched arms, pulling at his uniform, none standing much taller than his knees, while his First Lieutenant slips a paper bag over each of the hot, shimmering sacs and gives one to each child.
The scarred man watches them reach into their bags and pull out something - and eat it. The Ishbalan stands there in disbelief, completely stunned. He peers closer to get a better look. The morsels are fluffy and white and golden and no one gets sick. Yet.
Crimson eyes again rake over the officer’s face. His white gloves become filthier with what smells to the Ishbalan to be oil and butter as he helps distribute the remaining bags. His smile appears genuine, even compassionate, and he ruffles a blond boy’s hair.
Are these faces so different to you than those of the children in Ishbal? Were they not human and innocent to your eyes as well?
Anger boils in the Ishbalan’s blood, flooding his veins. Scar nearly misses the way the soldier’s eyes cloud over when he answers the children’s questions, and he almost ignores the First Lieutenant’s low voice when she quietly steps in the instant that he can longer speak.
The assassin remembers his Master’s words, his warning to his former student when Scar first ventured out on his path.
Your soul is stained with your crimes and cannot rest either. Do you look upon these small, fair faces and see the darker ones of those you’ve killed? Or is it only now that you hear your death knell that you are filled with remorse and regrets?
He doesn’t search Mustang’s eyes further for the answer. This is also of no consequence. Scar will never forget the terror and horror he felt as he ran through Ishbal all those years ago. He remembers how his heart had pounded as he fled the bullets that flew at him through the blinding smoke, choking him as he searched for his brother while bombs and bodies exploded all around him. He recalls the tortured screams that blended with the constant ringing in his ears as he tripped and rolled through streets before he regained his footing and kept on. Even now survivors remained in hiding, and the few that ventured out became victims of brutal crimes. No, there would be no forgiveness for unrepentant transgressors, and now it was they and their military brethren who cowered in fear when they heard his name.
And yet Scar sees that Mustang’s dark eyes had been haunted long before then.
No matter.
Scar’s eyes are hard and stern and his scowl deepens. Hailed as a war hero Mustang was promoted after the war, but lacking the leathery face and sinister snarl of the former Brigadier General Basque Gran or the zealous cruelty of Major Zolf Kimbley it was all too easy to imagine Roy Mustang as an idealistic young pup trying to fill a Major’s boots.
The desert warrior’s red eyes flash. Wrath and bile rise in his throat. Saliva builds between his tight jaws like an enraged predator foaming at the mouth, hungering to tear apart his prey. Scar spits in disgust. He pulls back into the darkness. Then he peers over the wall again, confident all are watching the Colonel too intently to notice him.
Duty and honor. To serve and protect. The soldier’s words resonate hard and deep within the scarred man. Mustang has principles, believes in them, fights for them, kills for them, and would die for them.
Misguided fool, Ishbal was no threat to you.
The Colonel’s speech ends and they all clap. The bespectacled and balding headmaster eagerly strides over and grabs his gloved hand, pumps it up and down with gratitude, pleased to have such an important person visit his school. The colonel and the plump man turn towards the camera, and they both smile as the headmaster sucks in his protruding gut just before the flash. Mustang’s words are cordial, but his eyes say this event is like many others he must participate in to further his public image, but his smile says this time he actually enjoys it. The headmaster pulls him to the side, near the window, so close, and invites the colonel to stay and enjoy the rest of the class presentation and asks him if he would do him the honor of touring the school and speaking with the parents and faculty.
Scar watches Mustang’s gaze flicker to the class teacher as she tucks a honey hued lock behind her ear and smoothes her knee-length skirt. Mustang gladly accepts, and Scar’s sharp eyes catch his First Lieutenant’s back stiffen as she alternately eyes her superior and the dog still sitting amid the children trying to pet him and grab at his wagging tail.
The stout man’s eyes fill with greed, already contemplating asking the Flame Alchemist to endorse his school so that wealthy and influential socialites will want to enroll their children here.
The First Lieutenant’s eyes fill with wrath that she has her hands full and cannot reach for her gun or the colonel’s collar to haul him out of the room.
The Flame Alchemist’s eyes fill with a heat that Scar understands all too well, and the assassin watches as the young teacher shyly slips her arm over the crook of his elbow.
Now is his chance. Scar could smash through the glass and kill Colonel Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, this very moment in one quick strike, while he is distracted and his sniper is being mindful of her dog, and while there were too many children around to prevent her from firing at him as he made his escape.
Instead he watches the soldier and the schoolteacher walk arm in arm out of the classroom.
Scar’s legs move as the music teacher begins to play, and he strides alongside them while the children’s singing echo through the halls.
Mustang’s strides are slow and evenly paced; it is he who leads her through the halls and he wants to take his time. He has a regal walk, and even his blue coattails flutter with commanding authority. Scar uses the trees and walls for cover and falls into step beside them, his ear attentively listening for information and changes to his personal schedule and his eyes carefully watching the smooth movements of Mustang’s lips.
Young, pretty, brown hair, blue eyes, slim. Scar remembers the rumors. The woman fits Mustang’s tastes. The assassin watches her cling to him, lean her head against his shoulder for a moment, hold her face so close to his when they speak, and fawn over every word. She tells him when she was six years old her family moved to Solerido, a province between Lior and East City well known for breeding strong and spirited horses and prominent in the trade, and had moved back here only six months ago.
“-Your first year back then? How wonderful!… The children truly adore you …and they’re quite lucky to have such a lovely and caring teacher…”
Mustang’s eyes are magnetic as he speaks, and his silver tongue ensnares her further with every minute. She smiles and lowers her eyes, and traces of heat color her cheeks. Her steps flutter and he relaxes his hold just enough; the butterfly in his grip is as delicate as she is lovely, and Mustang’s eyes rove over the tinge blossoming on her golden skin. She replies to his questions but it’s her hues that interests him, the gold strands of her honey colored hair that caress her face, the clear blue of her eyes that glitter like jewels, and the rose blush of her skin he uses to gauge her responsiveness to him. Mustang’s gaze is so intent that Scar flushes as well.
Mustang doesn’t relent; he flashes his charismatic smile, his subtle steady pull still strong. It’s her heat he wants, it’s warmth that attracts him most, and he knows just what to say to stir her blood and flood it to the surface.
“You’re beautiful.”
Her lips part in surprise, she draws in a breath she is too stunned to release, and Mustang’s gloves are off in a blink of an eye.
His gloves are off.
But Scar cannot tear his gaze away; Mustang slides his fingers along her hand, passing gently over her dainty fingers and slim knuckles, taking in the dewy sheen of sweat of her skin and the simmering heat just under the surface. Scar’s jaw sets and his dark cheeks burn. Beads of sweat form over his singed brow and the Ishbalan exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
Mustang’s dark eyes gleam; he smiles as he looks upon her innocent face, her eyes, her cheeks, her chin. Her blush deepens to his delight and travels down her reflexive throat. She bites her lower lip and looks away, and his hungry eyes shamelessly linger at the low neckline of her blouse. Mustang subtly runs the tip of tongue over his lip; her skin is all aglow.
They stop in front of the reading room, the children’s library with low bookshelves and tiny desks and chairs. Under the lights the woman’s chest rises and falls, as does Scar’s in the nearby shadows. Their breathing is steady, deep and rhythmic. Mustang runs his thumb over her knuckles and leans in, brushing against her lips with his own. Scar’s hand and lips tingle as he hold his breath and looks on.
She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him in for the kiss, and Mustang leans her hard against the door. Within seconds he’s turned the knob and they’re inside, tumbling along the bookshelves along the wall until they stop, squeezed tight, in the first corner.
So shameless!
Their kisses are ardent, hot and fast. Scar cannot turn away, and tight lips part as he holds his breath. Eager hands glide through damp hair and over quivering muscles. Scar watches Mustang move his tongue. Swift and cocksure, Mustang possesses her mouth; back and forth, in and out, sweeps, flickers and plunges all marked with reputed skill. Scar’s nerves ignite, his signals pulse, his blood pumps faster throughout his body.
A bite to her earlobe, a nip to her neck; the scrapes feel exhilarating, the sensations shoot to Scar’s groin. Mustang places her arms above her head and she holds them there as his bare hands run over her every curve and –/so lewd/- cup her breasts, gliding his thumbs over her erect nipples and then move lower. Scar’s muscles twitch, he yearns for a more aggressive touch, and bites his tongue as Mustang scratches her hip just right.
Mustang nuzzles her throat, teases her with kisses, and murmurs that he wants to take her to the countryside. He wants to take her to the fields where he spent many summers in his youth, where the grass grows tall and where they’ll rent a cozy cabin in the woods, and where the most wonderful blackberries grow big and plentiful.
Lies, all lies you bastard, just like you told the children. But Scar knows those blackberries are delectable and sweet, and vividly pictures their juices filling Mustang’s mouth and running down his lips.
The young colonel’s hands slide up her thigh, high below her rising skirt. He whispers in her ear, his voice is low, too low, but from her grin Scar knows he speaks of other things he wants to show her.
Defiler! Scar wants to scream, to lunge forward at Mustang, but his body is too taut, his throat is too tight, and his heart beats too fast in his chest. His breath is ragged, his bronze skin gleams with sweat, his blood boils and burns his face- and all Scar can manage is to choke curses and hiss in the dark.
Sinner, heathen, wielder of the devil’s arts- it’s your seductive wiles that blind so many to your vile-
Damn you Mustang!
Awareness abruptly returns the scarred man to his senses. He bristles, enraged, and shakes his head, then quickly absconds before his sinister enemy completely overtakes him.
~ End ~
Rating: R or Mature
Warning: One sided yaoi attraction, voyeurism to some het action, sexual situation
Summary: Scar sizes up Roy Mustang and discovers that fire is not the only weapon in the Flame Alchemist’s arsenal.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters and settings were created by Hiromu Arakawa and are distributed by Square-Enix, Viz and Funimation. I'm just borrowing them solely for my own amusement and hopefully your enjoyment. Done all for fun, not for profit.
Notes: Comments and feedback would be loved and greatly appreciated. Many thanks in advance for reading this fic!
Planting the Seed
Even here where every stranger is suspect, a silent killer slips near the classroom window, shielded only by shadows in a brick corner wall and the glare of the blinding sun.
So Flame Alchemist, it begins here. While they are but mere children.
The scarred man lowers his glasses. Vengeful red eyes gleam with disdain. White hair, dark skin, the pale x-mark on his forehead, he should be more noticeable on these grounds, a fugitive easily detected, but praise Ishbala he remains unseen.
The irregular structural nook is tight. The desert assassin presses himself further in, trying to fit his tall muscular body in the narrow triangular space. He feels the coarse brick scratch his left shoulder beneath his jacket. The somber figure pays it no mind, his gaze fixed on his target. He breathes deeply and lies in wait, brooding and watchful. He’s close enough to clearly see his mark through the glass and just far enough not to attract the sniper’s eager hound.
Your end draws near alchemist. Devil among men. Your vile existence will soon be cleansed from God’s earth. You burned Ishbal and my kinsmen to cinders as they screamed and begged for their lives. You had no mercy then, and I will show you none when your hour of judgment finally comes.
But for now the dark man was patient and observant, and stood quietly still.
Know the enemy’s strengths, find his weaknesses, and learn his habits. A basic plan. Straightforward, effective, uncomplicated. Scar clenches his right fist, containing the malevolent red glow under the intricate black tattoo.
Then the righteous hammer of God shall shatter your skull and send you to answer for your sins.
Two words drift to Scar’s ears. Career Day. Four men and three women huddle and whisper by the side of the blackboard. A doctor, farmer, baker, glassblower, a shoemaker, the teacher and the school’s headmaster, Scar quickly surmises. None of them worth more than a passing glance. They had each taken their turn at the head of the class and spoken to the group of small children about their professions, and passed out treats in blatant attempts to barter their attention and maintain order.
Now they all look up at Roy Mustang, the famed Flame Alchemist, in his blue and gold uniform and polished black boots. All eyes are held rapt as hellfire spews from the colonel’s white gloved fingertips.
Scar studies his face.
Dark hair and eyes, a color so deep it looks almost unnatural to an Ishbalan. Fair smooth skin, not seasoned or weathered, and clean of the customary mustache and beard commonly sported by senior officers. A young man’s face. His jaw line is strong; he is disciplined and determined, set on his goals. Scar’s eyes traces over it again from jaw to chin. He momentarily wonders if Mustang’s face had ever been pierced with stubble, but decides it is a passing thought of no consequence.
He is not Amestrian, or perhaps, not fully. The alchemist’s lineage is written in his eyes. The scarred man reads them. The nap of his neck tingles and he cannot hold his gaze there for long. Irked by his unease, Scar pulls his fiery gaze lower.
Mustang’s lips curl as he speaks and tugs on the edge of his glove. Like a man with too much confidence and not enough restraint. Crisp white shirt, buttoned to the top and the collar cradling his throat. Pressed and pristine uniform; clean gold buttons, shining insignias pinned straight. Pride in his appearance, pride in himself. Scar’s eyes gravitate back to Mustang’s. The dark pools are so deep and conceal much, like an abyss that one cannot fully emerge from, but now Scar finds the look in them arrogant and smug. Scar looks deeper, drawn in by the flickers beneath his egocentrism, and brazenness, and sees traces of youthful wistfulness and doubts and regrets long buried and guarded beneath them, a stark contrast to his polished words and easy smile.
Scar’s eyes narrow. Mustang is a man of two faces, two natures that he can interchange to achieve his will. He is a trickster, and a shrewd and calculating one.
The children are hypnotized by his accursed fire. It streams and swirls before them, loops, fans out and changes shape. Galloping horses, flying birds, toy bears, dogs, cats, blooming flowers – /flowers?/-entrance and amuse them, and they gleefully call out for more. The alchemist’ smile broadens. He gladly caters to each request with a warm smile and eyes that gleam with pride.
Scar’s dark skin prickles. Shrieks and squeals begin to grate his ears. Seething, his eyes blaze with rage, and one thought runs through his mind. A weapon being used to entertain children, to lure them into the blasphemous realm of alchemy, and twist their trusting minds to serve the masters of war.
Mustang quiets their excited outbursts with a gloved fingertip to his lips and two simple, persuasive words – watch this- and redirects his flames to heat what he tells them are corn kernels in aluminum bags. The children hear the popping sounds and become enthralled again. Scar cranes his neck to see what vile thing the alchemist has produced for them now. He sees them clamor around the officer with outstretched arms, pulling at his uniform, none standing much taller than his knees, while his First Lieutenant slips a paper bag over each of the hot, shimmering sacs and gives one to each child.
The scarred man watches them reach into their bags and pull out something - and eat it. The Ishbalan stands there in disbelief, completely stunned. He peers closer to get a better look. The morsels are fluffy and white and golden and no one gets sick. Yet.
Crimson eyes again rake over the officer’s face. His white gloves become filthier with what smells to the Ishbalan to be oil and butter as he helps distribute the remaining bags. His smile appears genuine, even compassionate, and he ruffles a blond boy’s hair.
Are these faces so different to you than those of the children in Ishbal? Were they not human and innocent to your eyes as well?
Anger boils in the Ishbalan’s blood, flooding his veins. Scar nearly misses the way the soldier’s eyes cloud over when he answers the children’s questions, and he almost ignores the First Lieutenant’s low voice when she quietly steps in the instant that he can longer speak.
The assassin remembers his Master’s words, his warning to his former student when Scar first ventured out on his path.
Your soul is stained with your crimes and cannot rest either. Do you look upon these small, fair faces and see the darker ones of those you’ve killed? Or is it only now that you hear your death knell that you are filled with remorse and regrets?
He doesn’t search Mustang’s eyes further for the answer. This is also of no consequence. Scar will never forget the terror and horror he felt as he ran through Ishbal all those years ago. He remembers how his heart had pounded as he fled the bullets that flew at him through the blinding smoke, choking him as he searched for his brother while bombs and bodies exploded all around him. He recalls the tortured screams that blended with the constant ringing in his ears as he tripped and rolled through streets before he regained his footing and kept on. Even now survivors remained in hiding, and the few that ventured out became victims of brutal crimes. No, there would be no forgiveness for unrepentant transgressors, and now it was they and their military brethren who cowered in fear when they heard his name.
And yet Scar sees that Mustang’s dark eyes had been haunted long before then.
No matter.
Scar’s eyes are hard and stern and his scowl deepens. Hailed as a war hero Mustang was promoted after the war, but lacking the leathery face and sinister snarl of the former Brigadier General Basque Gran or the zealous cruelty of Major Zolf Kimbley it was all too easy to imagine Roy Mustang as an idealistic young pup trying to fill a Major’s boots.
The desert warrior’s red eyes flash. Wrath and bile rise in his throat. Saliva builds between his tight jaws like an enraged predator foaming at the mouth, hungering to tear apart his prey. Scar spits in disgust. He pulls back into the darkness. Then he peers over the wall again, confident all are watching the Colonel too intently to notice him.
Duty and honor. To serve and protect. The soldier’s words resonate hard and deep within the scarred man. Mustang has principles, believes in them, fights for them, kills for them, and would die for them.
Misguided fool, Ishbal was no threat to you.
The Colonel’s speech ends and they all clap. The bespectacled and balding headmaster eagerly strides over and grabs his gloved hand, pumps it up and down with gratitude, pleased to have such an important person visit his school. The colonel and the plump man turn towards the camera, and they both smile as the headmaster sucks in his protruding gut just before the flash. Mustang’s words are cordial, but his eyes say this event is like many others he must participate in to further his public image, but his smile says this time he actually enjoys it. The headmaster pulls him to the side, near the window, so close, and invites the colonel to stay and enjoy the rest of the class presentation and asks him if he would do him the honor of touring the school and speaking with the parents and faculty.
Scar watches Mustang’s gaze flicker to the class teacher as she tucks a honey hued lock behind her ear and smoothes her knee-length skirt. Mustang gladly accepts, and Scar’s sharp eyes catch his First Lieutenant’s back stiffen as she alternately eyes her superior and the dog still sitting amid the children trying to pet him and grab at his wagging tail.
The stout man’s eyes fill with greed, already contemplating asking the Flame Alchemist to endorse his school so that wealthy and influential socialites will want to enroll their children here.
The First Lieutenant’s eyes fill with wrath that she has her hands full and cannot reach for her gun or the colonel’s collar to haul him out of the room.
The Flame Alchemist’s eyes fill with a heat that Scar understands all too well, and the assassin watches as the young teacher shyly slips her arm over the crook of his elbow.
Now is his chance. Scar could smash through the glass and kill Colonel Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, this very moment in one quick strike, while he is distracted and his sniper is being mindful of her dog, and while there were too many children around to prevent her from firing at him as he made his escape.
Instead he watches the soldier and the schoolteacher walk arm in arm out of the classroom.
Scar’s legs move as the music teacher begins to play, and he strides alongside them while the children’s singing echo through the halls.
Mustang’s strides are slow and evenly paced; it is he who leads her through the halls and he wants to take his time. He has a regal walk, and even his blue coattails flutter with commanding authority. Scar uses the trees and walls for cover and falls into step beside them, his ear attentively listening for information and changes to his personal schedule and his eyes carefully watching the smooth movements of Mustang’s lips.
Young, pretty, brown hair, blue eyes, slim. Scar remembers the rumors. The woman fits Mustang’s tastes. The assassin watches her cling to him, lean her head against his shoulder for a moment, hold her face so close to his when they speak, and fawn over every word. She tells him when she was six years old her family moved to Solerido, a province between Lior and East City well known for breeding strong and spirited horses and prominent in the trade, and had moved back here only six months ago.
“-Your first year back then? How wonderful!… The children truly adore you …and they’re quite lucky to have such a lovely and caring teacher…”
Mustang’s eyes are magnetic as he speaks, and his silver tongue ensnares her further with every minute. She smiles and lowers her eyes, and traces of heat color her cheeks. Her steps flutter and he relaxes his hold just enough; the butterfly in his grip is as delicate as she is lovely, and Mustang’s eyes rove over the tinge blossoming on her golden skin. She replies to his questions but it’s her hues that interests him, the gold strands of her honey colored hair that caress her face, the clear blue of her eyes that glitter like jewels, and the rose blush of her skin he uses to gauge her responsiveness to him. Mustang’s gaze is so intent that Scar flushes as well.
Mustang doesn’t relent; he flashes his charismatic smile, his subtle steady pull still strong. It’s her heat he wants, it’s warmth that attracts him most, and he knows just what to say to stir her blood and flood it to the surface.
“You’re beautiful.”
Her lips part in surprise, she draws in a breath she is too stunned to release, and Mustang’s gloves are off in a blink of an eye.
His gloves are off.
But Scar cannot tear his gaze away; Mustang slides his fingers along her hand, passing gently over her dainty fingers and slim knuckles, taking in the dewy sheen of sweat of her skin and the simmering heat just under the surface. Scar’s jaw sets and his dark cheeks burn. Beads of sweat form over his singed brow and the Ishbalan exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
Mustang’s dark eyes gleam; he smiles as he looks upon her innocent face, her eyes, her cheeks, her chin. Her blush deepens to his delight and travels down her reflexive throat. She bites her lower lip and looks away, and his hungry eyes shamelessly linger at the low neckline of her blouse. Mustang subtly runs the tip of tongue over his lip; her skin is all aglow.
They stop in front of the reading room, the children’s library with low bookshelves and tiny desks and chairs. Under the lights the woman’s chest rises and falls, as does Scar’s in the nearby shadows. Their breathing is steady, deep and rhythmic. Mustang runs his thumb over her knuckles and leans in, brushing against her lips with his own. Scar’s hand and lips tingle as he hold his breath and looks on.
She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him in for the kiss, and Mustang leans her hard against the door. Within seconds he’s turned the knob and they’re inside, tumbling along the bookshelves along the wall until they stop, squeezed tight, in the first corner.
So shameless!
Their kisses are ardent, hot and fast. Scar cannot turn away, and tight lips part as he holds his breath. Eager hands glide through damp hair and over quivering muscles. Scar watches Mustang move his tongue. Swift and cocksure, Mustang possesses her mouth; back and forth, in and out, sweeps, flickers and plunges all marked with reputed skill. Scar’s nerves ignite, his signals pulse, his blood pumps faster throughout his body.
A bite to her earlobe, a nip to her neck; the scrapes feel exhilarating, the sensations shoot to Scar’s groin. Mustang places her arms above her head and she holds them there as his bare hands run over her every curve and –/so lewd/- cup her breasts, gliding his thumbs over her erect nipples and then move lower. Scar’s muscles twitch, he yearns for a more aggressive touch, and bites his tongue as Mustang scratches her hip just right.
Mustang nuzzles her throat, teases her with kisses, and murmurs that he wants to take her to the countryside. He wants to take her to the fields where he spent many summers in his youth, where the grass grows tall and where they’ll rent a cozy cabin in the woods, and where the most wonderful blackberries grow big and plentiful.
Lies, all lies you bastard, just like you told the children. But Scar knows those blackberries are delectable and sweet, and vividly pictures their juices filling Mustang’s mouth and running down his lips.
The young colonel’s hands slide up her thigh, high below her rising skirt. He whispers in her ear, his voice is low, too low, but from her grin Scar knows he speaks of other things he wants to show her.
Defiler! Scar wants to scream, to lunge forward at Mustang, but his body is too taut, his throat is too tight, and his heart beats too fast in his chest. His breath is ragged, his bronze skin gleams with sweat, his blood boils and burns his face- and all Scar can manage is to choke curses and hiss in the dark.
Sinner, heathen, wielder of the devil’s arts- it’s your seductive wiles that blind so many to your vile-
Damn you Mustang!
Awareness abruptly returns the scarred man to his senses. He bristles, enraged, and shakes his head, then quickly absconds before his sinister enemy completely overtakes him.
~ End ~
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