Fuhrer's Orders

Title: Fuhrer’s Orders
Pairing: Kimbley/Archer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: improper use of gun oil.
Word Count: 3,778
Disclaimer: Don't own FMA/not profiting


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The war in Ishbal had been raging for years. It had been months since the dusty trains arrived back in Amestris, leaving sons and husbands in the tear-soaked arms of grieving women. It wasn’t as though the death tally had dropped; there were just too many to bring home and not enough personnel to do it. Relief troops became fulltime backup, filling in the shoes of the dead, and as supplies to the front lines ran short, phrases like those became quite literal. Soldiers who survived dispelled all romantic notions of seeing their loved ones before battle’s end. It was time to send in the Fuhrer’s trump card—the National Alchemists.

There weren’t many that were battle ready, or whose skills were even appropriate, but their numbers weren’t important. It was what they could do that mattered, made them valuable. Earth movers, fire bearers, demolitionists—they were the country’s prodigies and scientific geniuses; an army in and of themselves, yet too precious to risk on their own. Thousands of petty infantry were slaughtered before their deployment, sacrificed to learn the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses, though the populace would never learn that truth.

…killed in the line of duty, fighting for freedom and liberty, protecting brothers and families…

Pretty words spoken via telephone so Office Soldiers would not have to look their comrades’ loved ones in the eyes.

”Better that they grieve among the company of friends,” they said.

Apathy justified.


The alchemists were deployed, each assigned to different companies around the outskirts of the dying desert city. They were boys who believed themselves men, men who wished themselves boys, and more still who had nothing to lose. The platoons they joined would be their backup, or so they said upon arrival. Their orders from the Fuhrer, however, were a bit different.

“End this war, gentlemen. Any means necessary.”


Yellow eyes shined with delight.

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The Mad Bomber arrived at his designated camp at late dusk the night before the scheduled operation. His air of confidence was out of place as he traversed through the temporary settlement, winding gracefully around tents and battle-weary soldiers. They huddled together near campfires, warming each other from the desert’s night chill with their memories of home. Kimbley looked upon them with a gaze of indifference, their eyes widening with awe at his wiry intensity. He saw ammunition in them, rather than life. Chemical compounds in the shape of men, catalysts and detonators, fine sprays of red mist who knew not their alchemic potential. They were a mere, single press of deadly palms away from inexistence and they would never know it until it was too late.

Filthy; worthless; perfect.


Kimbley made his way to the commander’s tent, ignoring the quiet, confused murmurs of the infantry. Captain Archer was his name, according to Kimbley’s briefing. He was a standard sort, unremarkable record save for his exceptional attention to duty. Ishbal was his first field operation as a commander—a perfect chance for a person of his assumed character to prove his mettle, and with so many casualties, there would be plenty ranks to fill if he survived.

Kimbley smiled to himself as he unceremoniously pushed the flap open to the Captain’s tent, inviting himself inside.

Lets see what kind of man you are, Captain.
.

Archer sat behind a shoddy table, poring over maps and intelligence reports. He was pale-skinned and remarkably kempt given the circumstances. He seemed... boring, regulation, but there was a certain haughty air about him.

Perfect hair in a desert wasteland; you love your status here, don’t you?”

A thin eyebrow rose in question, “Can I help you, solider?”

“Now, that’s no way to address a superior officer,” Kimbley replied, a wicked smile splitting his gaunt face.

The Captain’s ice blue eyes raked over Kimbley critically, searching for any rank-identifying symbols. The alchemist was never one to dress appropriately and it was no different then, using the excuse that the standard jacket and waist flare restricted his movement in battle. “How the hell do you expect me to fight in a fucking skirt?” His superiors knew it was just an excuse. No one else had a problem with the uniform’s mobility, but he was a valuable enough weapon to overlook petty uniform infractions.

“I beg your pardon?” Archer frowned.

Five strides forward, deliberately slowly. Kimbley rested one palm atop Archer’s desk and leaned in unnecessarily close, displaying his other palm’s cryptic tattoo much too near Archer’s face for his own comfort.

“In case you weren’t aware, Captain, all State Alchemists achieve a rank of Major upon recruitment,” Kimbley explained quietly, knowing full well the man before him knew it already, “Silly, don’t you think? How long did it take you to get this far?”

And how far were you willing to go to get there?

Archer hesitated a moment from behind Kimbley’s palm before rising to his feet with an impeccably snapped salute. “Sir! To what do I owe the ho-“

“Oh, quit it,” Kimbley rolled his eyes and righted himself. Archer was exactly how he predicted—regulation.

“Sir?”

“Stop acting like a fucking dog,” Kimbley replied, irritated. “Relax. ‘At ease’, or whatever they call it.”

Archer hesitated a moment more before dropping his stiff salute for a more relaxed pose, but his look of confusion persisted as he watched Kimbley drag a small folding chair to the front of the makeshift desk. The alchemist flopped into it unceremoniously and threw his booted feet up onto the tabletop before him, dislodging the sand and dust from their soles all over the neatly arranged paperwork. Archer’s brows furrowed at the mess and he clearly restrained himself from objecting, but Kimbley ignored his silent protests, his attention drawn to cleaning the ever-present desert dust from under his nails.

“Have a seat, Captain,” Kimbley said, barely affording the man a glance. Archer took an audible breath and smoothed his jacket as he sat, resting his elbows on the tabletop and lacing his fingers together. Kimbley smiled inwardly at the man’s composure. “You’re wondering why I’m here,” the Major continued. It wasn’t exactly a question.

You have no idea…

“I would only assume you’re providing us backup,” Archer replied with a sigh, “we could use all the manpower we can get and having an alchemist around would certainly help,” He spoke tiredly and brushed the sand off a small stack of papers before offering it to Kimbley, “Here is the intelligence we’ve gathered since our forces were pushed back last week. Their numbers are increasing. It seems no matter how far we get, they keep-“

“Ah,” Kimbley interrupted with a smirk, making no move to accept the offered files, “not quite, but good effort.”

“Sir?”

Organized, intelligent. Interesting.

“At least one State Alchemist has been sent to every major platoon throughout the area,” Kimbley explained with a wave of a tattooed hand. “At midnight tomorrow, your troops are to advance.”

Archer’s mouth dropped, “But we have no idea how well the Ishbalans have regrouped! We don’t even know where they are!”

Kimbley smiled serenely, “Fuhrer’s orders, Captain. If you want to use tomorrow to gather your useless intelligence, be my guest, but regardless, they advance.”

Archer struggled to keep his cool, “Major, some of those men haven’t seen their families in years. They are tired. You want me to send them blindly into enemy territory?! It’s suicide!”

“The life of a soldier—adventure at every turn!” Kimbley laughed, then quieted abruptly and offered Archer a bored eye, “I think I read that on a poster once. Anyway, you won’t be the one sending them ‘blindly into enemy territory’, Captain—I will. I am relinquishing your command, here. You forget that.”

“I can’t agree to this, Sir,” Archer snarled.

You think you have a choice?

Kimbley eyed the man for a moment before snorting softly and rising calmly to his feet. Looking down on the man before him with cold eyes, he wrapped his slender fingers under the lip of the Captain’s table and threw it aside easily, sending it crashing to the floor and sliding dangerously close to one of the tent’s support poles. Archer nearly fell out of his chair at the sudden, unexpected action, but he managed to scramble to his feet as Kimbley took a step forward, their faces close to touching.

“I don’t think you quite understand your position here,” Kimbley whispered, his breath ghosting across the Captain’s cheek. “You can’t win the game without sacrificing some pawns. This is basic strategy; didn’t they teach you that in the academy?”

Archer gulped and backed away, but Kimbley matched his steps.

“No, I don’t suppose they would,” the alchemist continued absently. “Reality ruins the dazzling splendor of real military duty. Would you still have enlisted if you knew then what you know now?” He didn’t give Archer time to answer before continuing, backing him slowly to the rear of the large tent. “Listen. It doesn’t matter what you want. You fight for the Fuhrer, not those soldiers’ wives. The Fuhrer wants this war to end. He wants these people destroyed, the city leveled,” Yellow eyes twinkled. “You’re too attached, Captain; you’re soft.”

But not entirely, are you?

Archer’s back reached the tent’s wall, caught between the thick fabric and Kimbley. “None of these men should matter to you,” the Major continued. “I can see it in you, Archer. We’re not all that different, you and me.”

Archer’s expression asked ‘how’ in place of his faltering voice.

“I read your file. You’ve been kissing the asses of every ranking official since you got out of basic. You have drive; the only thing holding you back from greatness is this pathetic conscious of yours,” Kimbley tapped a finger against Archer’s head for emphasis, distracting him from the lips leaning in to brush against the outer shell of his ear. “It’s their job to die for us. You survived; you used your brain to rise above the pawns. Those guys out there are worthless—shields at best. You can either save your life or save theirs,” That finger trailed down along the curve of Archer’s clean-shaven jaw, stopping at the chin to tilt his face. “Which is more valuable?”

“I can’t weigh my own life against the lives of my men,” replied a thin, shaky voice, once full and confident.

Cracking chivalry…

“Why? You’re better than them. If you weren’t, you would be them; out there covered in filth. Look at you,” Kimbley ducked his head to the crook of Archer’s neck, taking in a slow, deep breath, “There’s soap on you, Archer. It’s fragrant; I can smell it. Why haven’t you shared that with your precious men?”

Archer’s eyes flicked to the side, “That is an officer’s luxury; it’s not rationed to the infantry.”

Feeble excuse…

Kimbley’s fingers deftly unhooked the buttons holding Archer’s unwrinkled uniform jacket in place, “Your uniform is like new. Did you bring extras?”

Archer fidgeted in place, knocking Kimbley’s hands away, “There’s nothing wrong with looking sharp. My men need someone to look up to.”

Kimbley’s throat bared as his head fell back with a barked laugh, “Looking sharp!” He mimicked, grabbing Archer’s hand, “Your nails aren’t even dirty! So while you’re in here with your shade and soaps, your men are out there doing your country’s worst! And they come running back to you with their reports and their salutes while your skin gets paler and your hair gets cleaner and you congratulate your little, ruddy dogs on a job well done? This is your idea of mentoring?”

Archer’s face contorted into a snarl and he shoved Kimbley back, “I don’t have to listen to this! Soldiers do not need soap to fight! They need me to give them orders! Structure!”

Checkmate.

Kimbley’s sneer could kill. In a flash, he was on Archer again, gripping him by the shirt collar. He whirled the Captain away from the tent wall and shoved the man to the floor before he had a chance to react, straddling him and pinning his wrists to the dirt. He leered down at the man below him, at the flushed, pale skin and the rumpled, dusty jacket, “There it is, Captain. What is it about that power that gets you off? Is it the dominance? The status? Both?”

Archer struggled under the Major’s weight, “I don’t know what you’re talking about! This is war; it’s not a game!”

“Ah yes, it is war and out here you are the king of your little domain. You control their fate; you are the decision between life and death,” Kimbley reached for a pencil lying in the dirt, discarded when he threw Archer’s desk to the floor. Archer used the opportunity to swing his fist at the alchemist above him, but it was dodged easily.

“Pawns need no luxuries, only your command. They’re an expendable resource,” Kimbley continued, holding the utensil aloft for Archer to see. The Captain ceased his struggling, watching with wide eyes as the pencil turn black. Kimbley threw it in the air above them before the entire pencil was enveloped and it exploded with a pop above their heads, dusting them with a thin layer of ash.

“They are tools at your disposal. Ammunition,” Kimbley spoke lowly, leaning down and grinding his body against Archer’s purposefully, “You can’t tell me you don’t smile when you hear the screams in the distance. It doesn’t matter whose voice it is, friend or foe. You like to think you can tell, but you can’t. It’s just the idea that it was your order that caused it; that ended that life, isn’t it?”

Just like me; just like me…

“No,” Archer clenched his eyes shut.

“You need to relax. Accept the monster inside you,” Kimbley released Archer’s other hand to unclasp the man’s trousers. “The denial will keep you up at night. I haven’t had a nightmare in years.”

“What, does that make you a better person?” Archer snarled, unsuccessfully trying to stop Kimbley from unsnapping his pants, “Because you admit the fact that you’re a maniac?”

Kimbley stopped and thought about it for a moment, his eyes boring holes into Archer’s, “No. I’m a better person because I know that in the grander scheme of things, humanity is worth nothing more than the atoms that make them, and when I make those atoms explode, I become that must closer to God. Destroying that which has been born of nature, rendering useless entire races with my bare hands… that is what makes me a better person. That is what makes me real.”

Deft fingers snaked their way into blue pants, seeking Archer’s soft flesh and pulling it free. “Look at you,” Kimbley said, teasing the man with a slow touch. “Just talking about power is making you hard. You can’t deny this.” Archer’s hips rolled upwards to Kimbley’s touch and he draped his arms over his face in shame. Kimbley chuckled lightly, scanning the room for some sort of lubrication.

Near Archer’s cot was his freshly cleaned rifle, the bottle of gun oil capped and set neatly to the side. It was further than Kimbley could reach and getting up from the man then was a gamble. Archer could run if he wanted; he could lose his nerve, but the oil was necessary.

“At midnight tomorrow, your men will enter the city through the Eastern wall,” Kimbley released Archer completely and rose to his feet, speaking to keep the man’s interest piqued. Archer peered out at him from between his arms, watching as Kimbley crossed the tent’s space to retrieve the oil. “If they remain undetected, they will advance further and seek out the insurgents,” he brought the small bottle back to Archer and settled on his knees between the Captain’s legs. “Their primary objective is to reveal the locations of the hidden Ishbalans,” Kimbley gave Archer’s trousers a sharp tug, pulling them up and over the man’s spread knees. Archer lifted a leg and allowed his boot to be untied as Kimbley spoke, “Most of them will not survive, but that is not my concern—or yours,” Archer’s trousers were pulled off to dangle on his one, booted foot and Kimbley spread the man’s thighs wide, squeezing oil into his palm and slicking it over Archer’s growing erection. “The Ishbalans are not stupid; they’re waiting for us. They’ll see us coming before we even enter the city.”

“Why are you doing this,” Archer breathed below him, taut stomach muscles twitching as he struggled to keep himself from rocking his hips.

Because I can read you like a book.

“When they come crawling out to fight, I’ll have my targets,” Kimbley continued, stroking firmly but slowly and slipping one hand down to circle Archer’s entrance, “I’ll blow up the entire city, starting with them,” More oil was squeezed into Kimbley’s hands and he slipped the tip of his finger inside. Archer drew sharp breaths. “Humans are made of such interesting things; so many volatile chemicals, such perfect bombs,” Kimbley’s finger slipped further inside, feeling and searching until Archer forgot to breathe, “the sound they make when their bodies erupt is a symphony. The detonation and its echo, the hiss of spraying blood, the chorus of screams,” But Kimbley’s line of thought trailed off then, his attention drawn to Archer’s own symphony of unsuccessfully stifled whimpers and gasps.

It wasn’t exactly what Kimbley had expected when he arrived at the camp, but he had always been adaptable. It was just a part of the game—attack, conquer, destroy. There was no reason for someone of Archer’s cold potential to be caught up in silly things like camaraderie. Notions like that only held men back and Kimbley could use someone like him, someone with ambition. It wouldn’t take long for Archer to outrank Kimbley and the alchemist knew that. He knew the military would never give him more power than he already had, but Archer was different. Archer was inconspicuous and non-threatening—the perfect ally.

The red stone necklace given to Kimbley by his superiors swung against his chest as he hunched over, tormenting Archer with his touch. With it, he didn’t need to use the Captain’s men for his alchemy, but Archer also didn’t need to know that. What fun was it without the look of horror on his victims’ faces, held against their will as their molecules rearranged? Their eyes wide, trembling in pain as their organs died and their bodies erupted? The Crimson Alchemist’s own powerlust was a force Archer could never match, but with Kimbley’s influence, he could come close.

The Major’s own need had become uncomfortably insistent, but he wasn’t ready to stop the play of his hands on Archer’s body. The man squirmed and writhed beneath him, rocking his body up for more, but Kimbley kept him wanting, controlling his subtle twitches and hitching breaths. He stretched him further and brought him teetering along the edge before bringing him back down again, sweating with frustration and spitting curses.

You’re not ready yet. Admit it.

Despite his own growing frustration, Kimbley could have stayed there for hours, bringing Archer closer and closer to only let him fall crashing back down again without any of the release he craved. He could feel the blood pulsing through Archer’s cock in his hand; he could see the man’s muscles growing weary, his legs twitching with fatigue. He swatted Archer’s hands away as the man tried to finish the job himself; Archer’s body was Kimbley’s to control.

So proud, aren’t you.

Threats and insults were snarled to no avail and Kimbley laughed through them, continuing his torture. It wasn’t until the third failed crescendo that Archer tried a different approach, gritting his teeth through a nearly inaudible plea.

”Please,” he rasped, a rivulet of sweat trickling slowly down his temple and into his dark hair.

“Please, what?”

“Just—do it!” Archer gasped, Kimbley’s fingers stroking his insides with focus, making it difficult for him to speak coherently.

“You want it? You want me to break you?” The Major smiled, murmuring.

Tired eyes clenched shut as the Captain arched his back.

“You understand now, don’t you. You embrace it, the demon inside you,” Kimbley stroked him close to orgasm once more before withdrawing completely, eliciting a delicious chorus of pitiful wails from the man below him.

“You—your fault,” Archer breathed, “You’re the demon inside me.”

Kimbley grinned wolfishly, “That’s right, Archer.”

Kimbley unbuckled his trousers quickly and pulled his swollen erection free. The last of the gun oil was smoothed over it sloppily and he entered Archer without warning, driving into him with long, deep strokes. He continued the light touch on Archer’s cock, stroking it everywhere Archer didn’t want him to. The Captain thrashed up to meet him, trying desperately to increase the friction, but Kimbley wouldn’t let him finish until he himself was ready.

“Will you watch tomorrow?” Kimbley asked breathlessly as Archer winced and whimpered below him, biting his lip to keep his silence. “Will you watch them all die?”

Archer groaned and bucked then, fucking himself with faster strokes than Kimbley gave him.

“Will you watch the sky turn red? Will you breathe in the ash of the burning city?” Kimbley matched Archer’s bucks, driving into him harder, bending the man’s knees forward and lifting his body off ground. “Will you taste the grease and blood of the burning bodies wafting through the air?”

Archer sobbed and clutched at Kimbley’s clothes

“You always did, didn’t you? But now you’ll do it with no regret,” Kimbley clutched Archer’s cock and jerked him firmly. With a wracking tremor, Archer stiffened and panted as he came, his body curled onto itself, his hands tangled in Kimbley’s pants and hair. A few moments later, Kimbley joined him, pulling out of Archer abruptly and marking the man as his.

The air in the tent was thick with sweat, but they both gasped for it, bodies heaving, weary muscles twitching. Kimbley cleaned himself off with the inside of Archer’s pants before rising to his feet and surveying the damage. Maps and various papers were strewn all over the floor, one of the legs of the table he had thrown was bent slightly and Archer himself was a mess, hair disheveled, uniform soiled, body soaked with sweat and come.

He kicked the empty bottle of gun oil back over to Archer’s cot and turned to leave. “Clean up here, or someone might ask questions.”

“That was the last of the oil,” Archer replied after a moment, sleepily through half-lidded eyes.

Kimbley snorted softly, “Doesn’t matter. We’re ending this war tomorrow.”