Rating: R for yaoi humor, nudity and language
PLOT:There are tales from the life of Fuhrer President Roy Mustang that will end up in the history books. This is not one of them—not if Roy can prevent it. A moment of poor judgement on a dark night in the western territory outback led to one of the most embarrassing accidents the Flame Alchemist ever had to bribe or threaten others to keep out of the papers….
Chapter Summary: Roy's humiliating close encounter with a venomous redback spider in the latrines has plastered his backside across the front pages of the Central Times....and as for the rest of him, he's whacked out on morphine and under the care of a whole platoon of overly curious nurses and a certifiably insane army surgeon who's enjoying Roy's convalecence just a LITTLE too much....
AN: Feedback is always appreciated! It's been a long, long time since this was updated--previous chapters can be found on Fanfiction. Net and Ao3. Thanks for reading!!
ROY MUSTANG AND THE CURSE OF THE REDBACK’S REVENGE, PT 4
A “Crackfic” by The Binary Alchemist 2014
(Lyrics adapted from and original lyrics inspired by “Red Back Spider” by Slim Newton)
“The nurses took my dignity—it’s gone without a doubt
They poke and prod and bother
Till they make me curse and shout
I tell ‘em I want privacy—get out and leave me be
I sure don’t need their helping hands
Each time I need to pee
They keep me clean with bed baths—a dozen times a day
And every time the doc comes in, my bum is on display
Now, someone’s called the papers and I’ve made the front page news
With photographs from angles that I NEVER thought they’d use…”
SOMEWHERE IN A CAFE ALONG THE CRETA/AERGO BORDER…
“Damn, this stuff is the real deal. You could melt a freakin’ spoon with it.” Edward banged his empty cup down with a sigh of satisfaction, signaling the waiter for a refill. “Un caffe, per favore—no crema. Con zucchero—molto zucchero.” Black with no cream and extra sweet, just the way Ed loved his morning brew. He glanced outside the window and noted the morning train was pulling into the station and he grinned. “Oh—and add to that...er…un latte…uh…solo. A glass of milk. Grande.” He shuddered in disgust. How the hell a grown man Al’s age could drink that shit was beyond Ed’s reckoning. “And some pastries. He’s gonna be hungry after that trip.”
Nowadays, thanks in no small part to Al’s own advances in airship travel, getting from one country to another wasn’t taking half so long as it once did. And Ed’s own development of the gas powered aeroplane engine three years ago in Drachma was inspiring a generation of young men and women to want to take to the skies. Granted, only a scant handful of cities had aerodromes in Amestris and in other countries Al had to find a place to tie down his airship and then rely on trains or automobiles to get him where he needed to go. However, this time Alphonse and the crew of the Xerxes had permission to tie up their airship on parklands owned by King Claudio of Aerugo and it had been an overnight train trip to bring him to the Piedmonte to meet up with his older brother.
“Giornale, Signore Elric?” Hell, does EVERYBODY know who I am these days? Ed wondered as a raggedy urchin approached Ed’s table, pushing a small cart stacked with newspapers. “La Republica? Gazzetto dela Sport?”
“Si. Edition Internationale.”
“Grazzie.” Ed flipped a coin to the boy, who caught it in mid-air with a grin. “Keep the change.” Languages had never been a problem for Ed or Alphonse, although it always seemed much easier to read in a foreign tongue than to speak it aloud. If he could manage the intricate codes of alchemic notation, reading an Aerogoan newspaper was a breeze.
However, when he flapped the pages open and glanced at the lead story, he had to go over it at least three times to make damn sure he understood what was emblazoned on the front page:
It was a picture of Roy Mustang’s butt.
Ed would have known it anywhere.
Granted, it was covered by uniform trousers, but that was hardly the point. “What the hell--?” He glanced at the headline. He read it again. He cursed in Amestrian and flung down a handful of coins, more than enough to pay his tab. “Mi scusi!” he shouted to the waiter, jerking his thumb towards the table he had abandoned. Vaulting over several crates of freshly delivered produce, Ed shot out the door, down the steps, nearly running over his younger brother who had just stepped off the boarding platform.
“Brother!” Al shouted cheerfully, waving his hand, but Ed had already run past him, shoving his way through the crowd to get to one of the empty phone booths. Al hurried after him, dragging his carry on valise over one shoulder. “Ed? What’s the matter?”
“Son of a bitch…son of a bitch!” Ed growled, shoving coins into the slot, then shouting the Cretan dialing code to the operator.
“Brother, calm down! Is it Roy? Is he in trouble?”
Ed shoved the morning paper at his sibling. Al pushed his sunglasses out of the way and scanned the headlines that trumpeted above what appeared to be a large photograph of Roy Mustang’s backside:
“PRESIDENT OF AMESTRIS IN SERIOUS CONDITION AFTER INTIMATE WILDLIFE ENCOUNTER”
His eyes grew wide as he translated. “’Intimate’? Ed? What happened—“
His brother was grinding his teeth, waiting impatiently to be connected to the field hospital. “That asshole…what the fuck was he doing?”
“And why do they have a picture of Roy’s bottom on the front page?”
“Don’t know…aw, shit! Operator, keep trying!...Don’t care, Al….but if that depraved asswipe has gone and done something stupid with somebody…hell, something…and wound up in the papers, I swear I’ll make damn sure he doesn’t recover!”
SOMEWHERE WEST OF THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, WESTERN AMESTRIS
For days he’d dreamed of gigantic spiders chasing him, naked, through the Outback. It was the pain medicine, of course, but unfortunately he was not able to rationalize his predicament when caught in the webs of his drugged dreams. The vicious creatures would pounce on him, jaws dripping with venom, chomping down upon his buttock with the same enthusiasm of a hungry boy biting into a ripe peach…
Tonight, however, he’d fallen asleep after flipping through his private locked notebook full of notes, sketches and erotic photographs of Edward, normally meant to provide comfort whenever they were apart. However, privacy was in short supply and he had no more than savored a touch of that delicious tingling in his groin than he had to quickly slam the book shut and lock it with alchemy before Mad Man Mandalay could get his paws on it.
September was warm and glorious in Aerugo that autumn and Edward Elric had had just a little too much of last year’s vintage.
It was all right; Roy had over-indulged a bit himself. They had three days of leisure at their disposal during the current state visit—almost unheard of when Hawkeye was running Roy’s schedule. Breda was a little more compassionate. “I figured you guys might want a break at some point,” he had informed them during the briefing. Got you set up for a couple of days off in the Aosta Valley—wine country, but not as well-known as, say, Tuscani. Pretty quiet, good fishing, and you’re not likely to get run over by a bunch of tourists.”
Breda’s selection had earned him a week’s furlough. It was perfect—a small cottage on the far edge of a centuries old estate. Out of uniform and out of the public eye, it was exactly what Roy and his lover needed. “You might get invited to help with the grape harvest,” Breda cautioned, “and if you see people sneaking off into the vineyard, well….” He cleared his throat and paused. “Let’s just say the locals believe it makes for a better vintage and leave it at that.”
They had been making their way back to their cottage when they found out what ‘improving the vintage’ meant among the Aerugoan country folk, finding a trail of shed clothing intercepting their short cut through the vineyard’s edge. Ed knelt to examine a discarded boot when they both heard unmistakable grunts and giggles somewhere up the path ahead. The giggles became groans, and Ed dropped the boot like it was on fire, his face flushing as he scrambled to his feet and darted off in the opposite direction, Roy laughing in his wake at his lover’s embarrassment.
“Oh, come on, Ed. You’ve read enough alchemy books to know about the folk magic belief of sympathetic response as a form of equivalent exchange.” Roy teased him mercilessly that night as they sat down to supper.
‘Aw, just call it sex magic and be done with it, Mustang,” Ed snapped back. “Superstitious bullcrap. Unscientific, and—“
“—and fun,” his lover smirked. “C’mon, Ed! You were raised in the country. What about all that harvest bonfire stuff they have back east? Lot of drinking. Lot of dancing—probably a lot of—“
“Geez! I never—“Ed flushed straight up to his hairline. “Just shut up about that, willya?” Roy didn’t press the issue any farther but it amused the hell out of him. He was pretty sure old Pinako could tell Roy some pretty raunchy stories about Ed’s forebears misbehaving in the bushes far from the glow of the harvest bonfires.
Not wanting to draw attention to themselves, they politely declined invitations to come into the village to feast, although as a gesture of goodwill Roy arranged for Breda to attend, presenting the merrymakers with a wagonload of meats and cheeses and other provender which was greatly appreciated. In return a basket filled with straw wrapped bottled was sent back to the President, gurgling softly with the previous season’s vintage. It was two of those bottles that Roy and Ed had cracked open the afternoon Roy had lured Ed out for a picnic…
…and Edward had lured Roy into something dangerous…and delightful.
“What the hell—ED!” Between the last dregs of the first bottle and the first swallow from the second, Ed had pounced. That hungry/playful/feral mode had clicked over somewhere in Ed’s inebriated brain and Roy knew he was in deep trouble—especially if they were outdoors and there were any other people with normal hearing within a two kilometer radius. Ed had downed the last mouthful of moscato, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, risen, laughing, up on his knees and then swooped down on Roy, yanking his blond hair free with one hand and tearing open Roy’s shirt with the other.
Buttons pinged everywhere and when Roy opened his mouth to protest, it was filled with a lively, inquisitive tongue. Coming up for air, Ed straddled his lover’s thighs and crawled his way up the President’s body. “I wanna test a scientific theory.”
Roy gulped. “Which is?”
Ed bent down until his mouth was inches above the President. “Wanna see if there’s any validity to all this bullshit about screwing in the vineyard making the wine taste better….”
Rolling onto his back, Roy shifted and squirmed, his right hand burrowing instinctively under the thin cotton sheets and the flimsy hospital gown, which was already tented and a bit damp….
“Here—let me help!”
“I’ll do it!”
“No, it’s my turn!”
If he’d been sufficiently alert, Roy would have realized that the hand that yanked the covers and gown away from his groin did not belong to the lover that was seducing him in his dreams. “By all means, be my guest, Ed,” he mumbled in his sleep. “Put your money where your mouth is.”
“None o’ that, Sunny Jim,” someone roared from the doorway. “Hoistin’ one up your mainmast when the nurse is givin’ you a bed bath? What kind of ratbag are you?”
In his fever dream Roy was reveling in something warm and slick and welcome on his cock, and for a few blissful seconds, that’s exactly what it felt like…
…just before his attending physician dumped the bedside pitcher of ice and water over the Fuhrer’s groin….
…..TO BE CONTINUED….