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Yield to me	By : RiekaDeVolka Category: Fullmetal Alchemist > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 443 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Full Metal Alchemist, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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- 1-Yield to me
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Title: Yield to me.

Rating: NC-17.

Genre: Smut, Angst.

Pairing: Zolf. J. Kimblee/Alex L. Armstrong.

Prompt: uke!Armstrong with verbal foreplay.

Feedback: Please! Suggestions and criticism welcome.

Setting/Spoilers: Manga-verse, up to chapter 63.

Word Count: 2 716.

Author Notes: Written for the fma_exchange challenge, winner of Best
Characterization, Most Effective Narrative and Winner Overall. ^_^

Yield to me.

He didn�t like him. He really, really didn�t like him. At all. He didn�t like
his hair or his eyes or his hands; he didn�t like his personality or his wit or
his macabre points of view. He didn�t like a single thing about him, but he
still let him do with him as he pleased. He didn�t know why, only that it had
always been that way, in Ishbal, and maybe that was why he hadn�t really
resisted when he appeared out of nowhere, that malicious smirk daring him to
reject him. Armstrong had stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him
blankly, before Kimblee�s smirk widened in a silent command, and he had moved
without thought.

Oh, how he regretted giving that step back, opening his home for him.

�I have a new assignment,� Kimblee said with that impeccable, almost demure
tone of his, belying his nature as he carefully set the delicate cup on the
table. �I shall go north soon.�

Armstrong tensed minutely, but refrained from showing any surprise outwardly.
He knew the game by heart, the rules and the strange movements as well as the
regulations and the punishments. No, he was playing host for Kimblee, and a
good host he would be. Folding a napkin, he teased his lips with it and kept
his eyes carefully trained on Kimblee�s nose � no, he didn�t like his nose
either � and tried by all means to avoid making eye contact. It was too
early to provoke an explosion yet, and he really intended to get through the
night without any damage to the apartment.

�I�m glad the times treat you so well, Major.� Voice strong, unwavering, he had
to keep his ground for as long as possible, otherwise Kimblee would grow bored
and cut the chase. Armstrong really didn�t want it to be the case, tonight.
�Though the North is not known for being hospitable.�

�No,� Kimblee smiled, something lazy and wicked twirling in his eyes, �it�s
known for being just as cold, stubborn and capricious as a woman ruling a
castle.�

Hands clenched on the blue fabric of the uniform, and Armstrong swore at his
own lack of self control � so many years free from his control, and he had
grown lax, undisciplined. Kimblee�s smile grew larger. Kimblee rarely wore the
uniform, and when he did, he wore it wrong. Armstrong always felt he was
disrespecting it when he used it, but he would never dare to voice it. He never
dared to voice it. After the first night, set in a tiny tent in the heat of the
desert and feeling vulnerable and nervous, unable to carry on with the burden
of a soldier; after Kimblee waltzed in and branded him his, Armstrong had
stopped daring to voice many things. He had learned to remain silent and let
his reputation do the talking; otherwise he opened himself for unspeakable
horrors that were bearable only in the shadows.

Kimblee�s laughter, rich and manically sophisticated, like the rest of him,
caught him by surprise, and Armstrong stared at the spectacle for a moment.
Clad in white � white always catches the red, my dear, it brings up the
color of my eyes and the delicious shade of garnet that�s fresh blood; you
should try it some time, it�s a classic � he looked like a fallen angel;
deformed, horrible, disturbing, and yet so entrancing, so alluring. It
didn�t help that Kimblee always knew where to strike, what to ask to cause the
most damage.

�I heard Mustang has called unwanted attention on himself,� another smile, why
couldn�t he run out of smiles? �How come you�re not among his group? Or have
you finally gotten over it, my dear?�

His silence was answer enough. Kimblee laughed again.

�My sweet, sweet Alex,� shudder, �are we still enamored of the bumbling
fool?�

The Crimson Alchemist slid off his chair with a whisper of expensive clothing,
walking over to the petrified Armstrong slowly, with the pace of a stalking
predator � and the image was not far off the line. Armstrong found himself
staring, despite his best intentions, at the golden eyes that promised so
little and assured him so much, and swallowed thickly when Kimblee saw fit to
accommodate himself on his lap. The way he carried himself, it seemed all those
years locked away had been nothing but a hopeful dream on Armstrong�s part, but
his body had withered a little and he felt weightless, hollow. A bit like bird
bones, like something ethereal.

But there was nothing ethereal in the way he looked down at him, the way his
hands curled menacingly on his shoulders, the way he held himself above him,
not touching him anywhere else.

Sadist.

�It�s been years, Alex, one would have expected you to honor family
traditions and take a wife already.� Armstrong held very, very still; he�d lost
control once already, so now Kimblee would try to make him lose it again. �But
then again, Roy Mustang wouldn�t want to wear a skirt, would he? No, he would
probably want you to wear it.�

Those hands clenched on his shoulders, and he could feel their heat through the
cloth. Kimblee was always so abnormally hot all the time. But those
hands, he�d seen what those hands could do, how deadly they could be. He was
trapped, he had always been trapped. He couldn�t remember a time when he hadn�t
been, when he�d had enough space to fight back, the will to fight back.
Those hands were an implicit threat, one that needn�t be voiced to be
effective.

�Would you?� And Kimblee licked him, flattened his tongue against the
underside of his chin, and licked. �Hm? If I asked you, you probably would,
wouldn�t you? Poor, poor Alex, so willing.�

He laughed again and Armstrong hated him, hated him fiercely and
heatedly. Wanted to stand up abruptly and throw him off, wanted to hit him and
throw him out. But the hands � oh, dear lord, those hands � kept curled
on his shoulders and he hated himself instead, when he felt himself trembling
slightly.

It wasn�t entirely caused by fear, either.

�Imagine that if you please, the great Strong Arm Alchemist, the glory of the
Armstrong family, bent over a table with a skirt pooling at his waist,� despite
the fact Kimblee�s face was inches from his own, Armstrong�s eyes were looking
past him, blocking out everything in a desperate attempt to keep what little
remained of his dignity. It was maddening, the way Kimblee could � and would,
Armstrong was sure of it � whisper the most improper and vulgar of things, and
yet he didn�t seem crude. No, Kimblee was always pristine, always an immaculate
apparition that graced their tired, worthless lives with his presence.

The utter shame of being unable to resist, to pull back or stay away.
Armstrong huddled away into his mind, rehearsed the steps as if not a day had
past between that first, horrible night in the Ishbalan desert and today. He
knew Kimblee cared none for him or his emotions, that he saw him only as a mean
to an end � both unknown, untouchable and unintelligible � the glimmering
shadows that curled over a perfect tool. He would never become Kimblee�s tool,
because he wasn�t his, his loyalty and his ideals belonged to someone
else, but that didn�t mean that Kimblee couldn�t try. He broke him a
sliver at a time, slowly, methodically; stripping him of his humanity and his
honor and his dignity, because he had managed to see through the fa�ade
that most people believed.

Kimblee didn�t see muscles or sparkles or a great and honorable family
tradition; Kimblee saw the insecurities of a second child that wasn�t really
cut for military service, but who enrolled anyway, because that was what was
expected of him. Kimblee didn�t see the sheer power he could unleash or what a
formidable foe he was in the battlefield, all he could see was the broken,
sobbing man that held a broken corpse to his chest and wept at the injustice
and the slaughter.

Kimblee saw his weakness, those intimate, shameful corners that he had tried to
so hard to hide away, and used them.

�-but you wouldn�t look nice wearing a skirt, would you?�

Small, golden eyes, cat eyes, predator eyes; they saw him, past him and
into him, the smile slowly turning into a sneer that became all to knowing.
It�s an expression to be feared, to make humble of even the proudest man,
because Kimblee was not an ordinary man. He was not just Kimblee, he was
more.

Armstrong knew, hated that what he knew and feared him all the same.

�No, I wouldn�t make you wear one, it wouldn�t be proper,� he placed a
chaste kiss to the tip of a petrified nose, delighting in the small straining
muscles around that strong jaw, desperately trying to remain still, �if I were
to fuck you silly and humiliate you back into your place, do you know what I�d
do, Alex? I�d fuck you in Mustang�s desk.�

And God, the image that slowly unfolded behind his eyelids, details
sparkling as each new word paints another hue of morbid into it.

�Good, ol� Mustang. He got the better hand of cards, that man, but that�s okay,
isn�t it? Because I�ve got you, no matter how much you wished it had
been him that found you that night. Do you think about it? Of course you do.
You think about brave, powerful Mustang coming down from his pedestal to pick
you up, to put the scrambled pieces back in place and let you feel whole again,
don�t you? You wished it had been him who fucked you in the desert, who made
you cry out and come like some cheap, Ishbalan whore.�

He wished the words would stop. He wished he could be strong again; that he
could find the feeble sense of security all these years away from him had
forged. He wished, above it all, that it weren�t true.

�But you aren�t whole, Alex, and you know it, you break at the smallest
provocation, and you know what they say about the finest china � once it
shatters, it�s worthless.�

It was happening again, like it had, before. Like those two months he spent
eating cheap, precooked food and listening to soldiers slurring old songs,
tasting the scent of carnage under his tongue. Like those two long, painful
months in which Kimblee was always behind him and two steps ahead, directing
him without saying a word � because he didn�t need a word to shape up
his life � and reducing him to shivering shadows that could hardly school
themselves into a sentient being.

The intoxicating knowledge of genocide, death walking placidly among them, the
sand that got so deep into his uniform he often felt it in his bones. He
had thought that with all that missing, this would not be so humiliating, so
strong. That he could break Kimblee�s hold on him if only he could break the
hold of Ishbal over his conscience.

�You�re hard.�

And he was. He was hard, remembering the bitter kiss of those fingers on
his back, eroding away what little remained of him whenever they orchestrated
tiny explosions below his skin. He was hard, thinking of the torn pores that
never truly left scars � Kimblee was too smart to leave scars; his brand
on him went beyond a silly physical memento � and which stung fiercely when the
wind blew and managed to sneak beneath his clothes.

He was hard, aroused, on the brink of climax; with a half starved, half mad
sadistic human bomber on his lap, staring him down with golden, cat eyes that
promised much more and unable to move, to do something. There was a tint
of awe in Kimblee�s voice; perhaps all those years locked in a tiny cage had
changed him too, because he seemed almost surprised at what seemed a strange, unnatural
reaction. But that wasn�t the case, of course, because just like Armstrong was
back to the haunted battlefield with its bloodstained dunes, Kimblee was back
to being the proud beast that prowled the camp and ordered everyone around,
simply because he could.

�Come for me.�

There was silence, and then, Alex Louis Armstrong, the Strong Arm Alchemist,
embraced hell with open arms and did

~*~*~

He always cried when they fucked, Kimblee remembered, because it was a strange
image. Perfect, crystallized in its sordid glory and beckoning him to commune
with the sheer power that could break men like Armstrong so easily. The
large figure, larger than most he knew, sprawled below him, offered as a
willing but reluctant sacrifice. His to be done with as he pleased. His to blow
apart, pore by pore. His to cherish and hate and alchemize � deconstruct,
understand, reconstruct � as he saw fit.

It was a beautiful thing, a thing of myth.

But Kimblee was a man of action, and once he was satisfied, he would move on to
the next assignment, the next symphony to create. But he would remember
Armstrong; remember his defeated whines, his gasping pleas, his shivered moans
and his pitiful tears once he realized he was down the pit again. Kimblee would
remember this, the exact moment when pleasure dissolved into torture and
Armstrong cracked just the tiniest bit more.

This was his greatest masterpiece, one that he had been molding for years. Like
a precious sculpture he had designed from the very start, each movement
calculated and well timed. Armstrong begging � to stop, to go on, to be done
with it, to be done with him � and Armstrong coming, tears pooling
already at the corner of his eyes. To be able to capture the essence of that
suffering into a pendant he could carry around like a trophy, to encapsulate
the fear, the longing, the despair into a sigh and replay the sound eternally
to his ears; Kimblee would blow the world in half to be given the chance.

�I thought I told you why you were released.�

The confident, if irked, voice irreversibly cleared way the fog of fantasy over
the scene, and Kimblee turned to find Envy perched on the window, staring
alternately between him and the man passed out on the bed. The Crimson
Alchemist was merely glad he�s had time to dress properly, because having to
deal with his current �employer� clothless would have been terribly uncouth to
not mention inconvenient.

�Indeed, you did,� Kimblee adjusted the tie on his hair deafly, before brushing
a hand teasingly over the bloodstained back, �but considering I�ll be visiting
relatives, the only polite thing to do was to ask for any messages to deliver.�

Envy snorted, because he was not human and all this is frivolous and pointless
to him. He did look more than was needed too, because as a waste of time this
had been, Kimblee was a human he could more or less understand most of the
time. For him to do something like this was disconcerting � and he had to know why.

�Aren�t you going to kill him?� He asked, motioning to the immobile body
that continued to sleep exhaustedly against the covers. �Won�t he try to do
something stupid now?�

�Oh no, my dear,� Kimblee smiled at Envy � an eerie situation,
considering it was usually Envy who smiled that particular smile � and
tilted his hat over his clothes, pristine and spotless as usual, �you don�t get
it at all. He�ll make the most glorious explosion, an entire opera in a single
sound� but only the day he gives up. When he yields to me, I�ll turn him into poetry.�

Kimblee walked out of the room, the apartment, the building and eventually the
city itself, but Envy remained there, sitting at the windowsill and wondering
about his words. Yield to someone? To give up everything to gain nothing?
Betray identity for the sake of comfort? Envy didn�t understand humans and
doubted very muchly that the bloodied mess of man in the room would ever be something
even remotely resembling poetry, but Kimblee had yet to fail them and well�

Envy had never been able to not watch a perfect tragedy that unfolded so
neatly before his eyes.
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