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Hair of the Dog

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What it all came down to was the dog.

"No one appreciates a good joke anymore." Or a good stew.

"Who was joking?" Roy Mustang threw his still-booted feet onto the coffee table with a thunk that caused the bottle to jump and Jean Havoc to eye it warily as it came down beside a pair of white gloves. Alcohol and alchemical fashion statements. There was a relationship waiting to crash and burn.

"Certainly not you, Sir," he replied, once he was sure the apartment and its inhabitants were safe for another thirty seconds or so. "Everyone knows you're a paragon of seriosity the rest of us can only dream of emulating." Seriosity. What shot was he on, again?

"Well, now I know who to send the new recruits to the next time they need a lesson in kissing ass." Ice rattled against glass as Mustang gave the latter a swirl. Its rim soon enough obscured his mouth, but Havoc was fairly certain he was smirking.

"...with tongues, or without?"

Ah, Friday nights. That magical time in a young military man's life when -

What a load of bunk. Friday nights were for drinking, fighting, and fucking; not necessarily in that order and not always one at a time. No one ever asked where Mustang and Havoc - or Mustang and Hughes - or Mustang and -

God, Roy was a slut.

- Mustang and his right hand, at this rate - got off to on Friday nights, because anyone who cared enough to ask would have been similarly occupied, and anyone who wasn't didn't care enough to ask.

Saturdays had their own charm, but they had it in a middle-of-the-weekend sort of way. They lacked the sense of relief that came at the end of another week without a crime wave, a rebellion, or a suspicious explosion or three. Sundays were for recovering from Fridays and Saturdays, and Mondays -

Well, Mondays just sucked. But it was Friday, and as long as the world didn't end over the next two days, he had a whole forty-eight hours before he had to worry about whether or not he'd be stuck 'borrowing' another bottle of concealer from Riza's desk.

Because Roy sucked, too. (He also bit, scratched, and pulled hair.)

It was quiet for a Friday, and Havoc couldn't decide if that unsettled him or not. At least when Mustang was raving, you knew what was going on in the man's mind, and there usually wasn't room for it to be anything of concern. When he was quiet, though... That was when you had to worry about just what those turning cogs were churning out.

"You don't seem much like the dog-owning type, really." The Colonel's voice, once it came, was as casual as it could be, and that was as disturbing as anything else. "You seem more like...the owned."

Well, at least he tended not to leave you waiting long. Havoc rolled his eyes, tossing one arm over the back of the sofa and settling in. "And you don't seem like the type who'd be interested in getting the female officers into skirts. You seem more like the type who'd..." Did he really want to go there? Yes, he did. "...be interested in getting into a skirt himself." A pause. "Wearing one, I mean."

"Yes, that was evident," Mustang noted dryly. "A lesser man might be threatened by the suggestion, I suppose."

"So you wouldn't mind wearing one to work on Monday, I take it."

"Now, now, Lieutenant." The drawl became chiding. "You know that's against regulations."

"So is consorting with fellow officers, but when has that ever stopped us?" Havoc grinned wolfishly.

"Touché." Roy smirked as he leaned forward; though only, it would seem, to set the glass on the table. His arms were already curled by the time he returned to his previous position, comfortably cradling his head. "Now that I think of it, I don't believe there are any regulations whatsoever regarding the use of collars and leashes as human accessories."

A blonde brow lofted. This was going nowhere good, and fast. "Wouldn't that fall under the heading of uniform, uh...uniformity?"

"Who said you'd be in uniform?" Dark eyes, half-lidded, cast lazily over Havoc's form. He suspected they were undressing him already. "You seem nervous, Lieutenant. Would I hurt you?"

"Well, yes." Did he really need to answer that? Hell, did it even need to be asked?

"Only for your own good!" It was amazing how much false sincerity Mustang could pack into one wounded expression. "And the good of the company, and my position, and the Miniskirt Manifesto - no one wants to see my legs, after all - it looks bad on all of us if we've got men who can't trust their superiors!"

"And the good of your cock, I suppose." Havoc rolled his eyes again.

"Well, since you brought it up..." Just like that, the offended look was gone; replaced with a grin that could only be called shit-eating - though it probably wouldn't end up with Roy doing the eating. "Tell you what."

Oh, no.

"Rather than pull rank -"

Oh, no.

"- I'll just pull your cock. And you can do the same for mine, of course, seeing as you're so interested in its well-being. First one to come loses! The stakes - a leash versus a miniskirt! Dog versus Manwoman! Mind versus mutual masturbation!"

Mustang was, by this point, on his feet with a fist in the air. Havoc took advantage of the man's megalomaniacal distraction to drop his head into his hands.

"Be strong, man!" The un-fisted hand clapped his shoulder, heavily. Given the sound of a zipper unzipping just past his ear, he could only assume that the other hand had unfisted as well - which was undoubtedly for the best, as it had just occurred to Jean that he didn't really want to think about Roy and fisted hands. Not right then, at least. "Get those pants off! That's an order."

"I'd like to see the regulation regarding that," Havoc mumbled, raising his head - only to come face to - face? - with a fully-erect cock, which bobbed gently before his eyes as if to encourage him with its gentle nod. His fingers fumbled on his own fly, in which he managed to catch the front of his boxers -twice - before finally peeling the both away. Well, it could have been worse - then again, if he'd caught his prick in it, it probably would have at least gotten a kiss.

A kiss. What was he thinking? He'd lose for sure that way.

Mustang eased onto the sofa-cushion beside him, close enough that hip touched hip and the warmth of breath could be felt rushing over his subordinate's throat. Even as one arm settled behind Havoc's head, the other was reaching for the closer hand; pulling it over to rest on the shaft that jutted from the Colonel's dark and tangled...

...pubic garden. It was a good thing they weren't drinking anymore, or Jean would have just snorted booze out his nose.

He allowed his fingers to curl, and was rewarded with a soft and nonsensical murmur from Roy. His thumb shifted slightly, the pad at its tip gliding over skin feverish and delicate; too delicate for the rougher games they liked to play - he could dig in a nail, and he'd get his revenge -

If he'd had the advantage, it wasn't for long. It was as if Mustang knew what he was plotting, and satisfied that such thoughts would keep Havoc's hand in place, dared at last to move his to the other man's dick. It took a firmer grasp, bearing down right away and beginning to move with purposeful strokes; strokes that drew from Jean a gasp and convinced him to close his eyes. He didn't need to look to jack someone off - and if he looked, he'd just see Mustang's leer, the tip of a hungry tongue running pointedly over a tooth. No, he didn't need to look. His cock responded well enough as it was; darkening as blood rushed into its tissues and caused it to swell; filling a hand, its fingers, forcing them to adjust their grip...

No. No. Can't enjoy it, damnit, he repeated to himself again and again; a mantra whirling around the insides of his head. Got to win. Got to get Mustang into a skirt, get into Mustang's skirt. What the hell?

A low chuckle from beside him made him wonder if he'd spoken aloud. He hoped he hadn't. It wasn't as if the Colonel needed more fodder than he already had. Gritting his teeth, Jean allowed his fingertips to dip down and rub over the tender skin that encased Mustang's balls. The resulting buck of the man's hips spurred him on - a slow slide of a tightening hand upwards along the shaft; thumb tracing the forking roads formed by plumped-up veins, circling the ridge and its great divide, ascending cautiously the fleshy peak. Different, the surfaces; different enough that he explored the spongy bulb of the head as if it were completely new to him; prodding the slit in its center with a fingertip, smearing the tiny droplets that from it already welled. If Roy were a volcano - and he might well be - who knew, with the Flame Alchemist? - Havoc would be in for a burning soon enough.

A sigh escaped him as his actions were mimicked almost exactly - how dare he? Was all fair in fuck and war? No doubt - and he slumped down, his ass nearly sliding off the edge of the sofa - but it got his prick up higher, and that was all he cared about.

No, no, no. Must...fight...

Why couldn't Roy have chosen another method of contest - conquest? Matching drinks shot for shot, transmogrifying houseflies at fifty paces, staying awake while perusing the full fifty-page outline for the Miniskirt Manifesto - anything but sex! Because Roy Mustang was sex, and he knew it. Everyone knew it. Drunken houseflies in miniskirts knew it.

His hand shook. He could feel the ridges in Mustang's cock as the silken skin-sheath slid over it, his up-and-down manipulations quickening. There was sweat between his fingers, and sweat on the thatch of hair that his fist pounded every time it hit bottom, and the scent of lust welled up from it welled up welled up -

Oh God no no no yes yes yes -

He hissed, half the air that should have been in the breath lost as it struggled to make its way past his clenched-and-locked teeth. Roy's hand was every bit as hot and wet as his was, and it slid with ease along his prick, rough and careless; striking the ridge beneath his second head with such force he was surprised it didn't come right off - Come off, come, off - and pulling straight back down so quickly it was obvious the Colonel probably wouldn't have cared if it did (at least until it came time for the inquiry). There was a fire building in his loins - they called Mustang the Flame Alchemist for a reason, fucking flaming alchemist, fuck the Flame Alchemist - and the skin over his balls was tightening, the sac drawing up like it wanted to run away, hide away, too heavy to escape have to drop its load first -

The ferocity of the cry that tore itself from Havoc's throat surprised even himself; though once he came back down to earth, he would have a sneaking suspicion that it hadn't Roy at all. His free hand curled into a fist and slammed into the sofa, over and over; while that on Mustang's prick jerked about wildly, caring little more for its safety now than its owner had his. His hips bucked and his muscles tensed, a shudder racking his form with such severity that as his release erupted from his cock, he found himself unable to breathe - struggling, spiraling down into blackness, a thousand white points of light flashing against the backdrop of his eyes -

His heart skipped a beat. He gasped, and shuddered once more. When he opened his eyes at last, Roy was smirking down at him like the cat who'd caught the helpless canary from the mine.

"Well, you might as well go on and finish," Mustang said. "Nothing to lose now, eh?"

***

Mondays -

Well, Mondays just sucked. Particularly Mondays that started off with Roy Mustang waiting outside Headquarters with a collar in one hand, a leash in the other, and -

"Is that a bone in your pocket, Sir, or are you just happy to see me?" Jean Havoc ran his eyes over the Colonel several times, trying to decide where it would be the least uncomfortable to leave them.

"My, my. What loose eyes you have, Lieutenant. I suspect if they get any bigger, they're going to fall right out of your head." Mustang twirled the leash idly, with a motion that reminded Jean of nothing so much as a lasso.

"The better for you to put me on a leash and lead me safely around, I suppose?"

"...yes!" The hand holding the collar thrust itself up and forward. "We can call it the Blind Man's Manifesto! Safety for the sightless! What better than a strapping military man and his straps to make you feel secure?"

"Can we just get this over with, Sir? Please?" The furry sweater he'd donned to add to the canine effect - and cover up some of the blushing (and the bruising, and the bite marks) - was beginning to itch. He supposed he could always blame his squirming on it.

"Eager little pup, aren't we?" Roy grinned. Regulation bootheels clicked on the cobblestones as the man advanced on his subordinate, the elongated shadow cast by the morning sun making him loom all the larger. For a moment, Havoc considered turning tail and running as fast and far as he could in the opposite direction - Cosplay with Colonel Mustang had to be about the best excuse he'd ever thought up for going AWOL, and even if they court-martialed him, well - that'd get him out of wearing those ridiculous floppy ears, wouldn't it? - but he knew he wouldn't. He never did - and eventually, he bowed his head with all the meekness he could summon and allowed Roy to fasten the collar around his throat.

"Turn around, Lieutenant." Mustang made a spiraling motion with the emptied hand.

He considered weeping, just to see if it got him out of this mess - it worked for girls, didn't it? Of course, that was just as good a reason not to, or the next thing he knew, he'd be on the wrong end of the Miniskirt Manifesto himself.

Mustang's hands were on his ass - or, more accurately, fiddling with the back of his pants, which pulled and drooped suspiciously once he found himself released. A glance turned over his shoulder resulted in a groan as he spied the swishing, badly-sewn pelt that hung from his belt. A more self-respecting mutt would have chewed his own tail off if it looked like that.

The ears weren't much better - one of them insisted on flopping over his left eye, while the other cocked in a position that couldn't be called natural by any sense of the word. Briefly, Havoc found himself wondering if Mustang just couldn't sew, or if he'd purposely done such a rotten job to add to the humiliation factor. Knowing Roy, he wouldn't put the latter past the man - at all.

Well, he might as well make the most of it, then. His fingers closed over Mustang's as the Colonel reached up to clip leash to ring, and he leaned in; eyes narrowing to a point somewhere between a promise and a pleasant threat.

"Later, we can do it doggy style."

The comment evoked no more than a husky chuckle from Mustang, who jerked his hand away and tucked into it the end of the leash. The other remained on the halfway point of the tether, and gave a commanding tug - he was going to keep Havoc on a short one, it seemed.

With a shake of his head, Jean followed Roy up the steps; inserting one finger beneath the front of the collar and giving a tug of his own.

***

It was going to be one of those Mondays - the kind that made Riza Hawkeye wonder just what had been slipped into her drinks the Friday before. There was no other logical reason she could come up with for why Colonel Roy Mustang would be leading Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc through the door on a leash.

Well, then again, it was Havoc and Roy.

"I'd say you look like you could use some hair of the dog that bit you, Havoc," she murmured as she rocked to her feet and brushed past the pair, having decided it might be best to take something for her head after all, "but it's clear you already got it."

"You have no idea, Lieutenant," Havoc replied glumly, with a shake of his head and a yank on the leash. "Just no idea at all."