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Alphonse lies awake in bed, sheets warm and the body of Byron still against his side.
It’s very late.
He can’t sleep.
Or, he can. Technically. But...
That familiar, warped memory lies too sharp in his mind, thoroughly established from the previous night, one where he awoke, choked breath in his throat, clammy fingers fisted in the sheets, desperation and sickness with himself so entrenched nothing could claw it out.
And if he goes to sleep now, it’ll all happen again.
So, he stays, stares up at the dark concrete bunker ceiling. Thinks about anything else other than the vision of Byron beneath him, knife through his throat instead of his leg, Alphonse’s hand controlled by fleeting impulse. Slick and fast and perfect in execution, like he was made to be.
Fuck.
Even the warmth of Byron’s body triggers the trickling, dreadful phantom sensation of it leaving, cold and clammy until Alphonse can’t even be sure of it here and now, and takes his fingers to gently lay over Byron’s pulse point. Just in case. It’s just in case, just in case, just in case.
Think about... uh. The little wooden bird on the night stand.
He shifts slowly, reaching over and picking the figure up off the surface, turning it in his hands, concentrating on the sharp point of its beak that digs into his palm, the hard edges where the wing tips jut, then the softer rounded places where he’s sanded it down to something smooth. The top of its tiny head, the belly. It’s still unfinished, rough and misshapen in places, and his newfound sense of calm suddenly falls through as he imagines picking up the knife on the stand to keep whittling. He’ll ruin the bird. He’ll mangle all it’s careful edges, turn to the side and bury the blade in Byron’s neck. Even one second of uncontrolled impulse is all it would take.
Beady wooden eyes observe him, alone.
This would make a decent bludgeoning weapon.
He drops it into the covers.
And without that-
...He could close his fingers around Byron's throat, watch as he claws and kicks and chokes, wait for his eyes to roll and muscles to weaken. Or it could be even easier, to feel the crunch under his palms, glassy gaze like marbles as his body goes suddenly slack-
Alphonse slips out of the sheets as carefully as he can, feet to the floor as he walks briskly out of the room and into the makeshift living and kitchen area.
There. Distance.
Now, theoretically, it will take a few seconds longer.
He surveys the one fold out metal camp table in the centre of the room. An old plate from this afternoon, a butter knife left to the side. A thermos with coffee dregs still visible at the bottom. A magazine. He seizes the latter with a kind of fraying desperation, crumples the glossy pages between paling knuckles. It’s one of Byron’s, brought for his stays here, just pages and pages of worthless aerospace advertisements, but it’s something for his hands to hold, something that finally makes it more difficult rather than that much easier to do what he’s made for. The vision of beating someone's head in with a rolled up magazine strikes him then, and he laughs abruptly even as he tries to choke it down, a tinge hysterical.
A muffled half-yell half-choke rings sharp from the bedroom.
For a micro-moment, the same. Blood shimmering with orange light, clawing nails drawing lines down his forearms. The roar of the fire around them somehow unable to drown out the sounds of death, the gasping, gurgling.
Alphonse rushes back inside, fingers still tight around the magazine to pacify himself- just in case. Byron sits up in the bed now, eyes wide and glossy in the dim, one hand wrapped increasingly firm around the other forearm like to hold on is to survive.
“Byron?”
The distress around Byron’s drawn face fades slightly as he visibly comes to consciousness even as the remnant shivering in his fingertips still remains. His eyes dart up, find Alphonse’s face, then flit away like discomfort embodied.
A type of queasy knowing turns in Alphonse’s chest. It’s a mirrored action, dreams intruding upon reality to where avoiding the flash of memory is to tear your eyes away.
“Byron, what-”
“Why do you have that?” Byron mumbles. Alphonse looks down, the magazine cover mangled about his fingers. “Did you have beef with it?” Byron follows up.
“Sorry.”
Byron looks back, this time suddenly resolute, as he holds his gaze. Seeking... something. Then. “Drop that and get over here.”
“Wh-”
“Get over here. You can pay me back later.”
Despite himself, Alphonse lets his fingers pry free, drops it on the floor and clambers over the thin mattress and metal frame to where Byron lies. “Do you need anything? It sounded kinda rough.”
“I’d like to remind myself.”
A hot palm cups the back of Alphonse’s neck. “Hm?”
“I have an idea. Do you-” Byron pauses, a slight, sudden apprehension about him now as his hand stills. “You can say no, but, and maybe this wont work anyways, but-”
“Byron.”
“Yeah, sorry.” He mutters. “Do you have rope?”
“I have... the rope I use for the trees?”
Byron’s eyes find his then, the light brown strangely piercing. “I want to tie you up.”
“Huh.” Alphonse pauses. Now this is a turn. “How... much.”
“Just your hands. Behind your back.”
And that's, yeah.
Alphonse takes a moment, heat already rising to his face, a strange rush of affection too, that Byron suggests something that he only now realises he needs. Restriction, safety, security. Control.
And that might just work.
“You’re a genius babe, I’ll be back.” He says it in a rush, already moving away from the bed and through the doorway to grab the rope, tucked away in one corner of a modified vent hatch. Soon, he’s back, and a pair of scissors and a heap of rope are tossed over Byron’s lap as he climbs over the bed again, mattress springs creaking.
“You really like this idea, huh.”
“A little.”
“Uh huh? Turn around, show me your hands.”
Alphonse does just so, and already, even the process itself is a comforting pacification. Like the weight of a warm blanket stretched over his body, the snip of scissors, the rough touch of thick hemp rope that will undoubtedly leave marks, it’s grasp firmly tightening until his wrists press close. Secure.
There’s still another image of this, hands behind his back strapped to a cold steel chair- Hands behind his back as freezing water plunges about his body in the dark, fingers scrabbling to untie himself before he drowns-
A finger hooks between his skin and the binds. “That too tight?”
Gone, just as fast.
“It’s good.” He breathes. Tests the fit with a light tug that stops his arms fast.
Oh yeah.
Byron chuckles behind him. “I should have suggested this sooner.” A hand on his shoulder, a voice near his ear. “Foot of the bed.”
Alphonse allows that hand to guide him, shuffles to the end until another nudge prompts him to step onto the floor and stand, turn to face Byron. He tests the bindings again, almost absent mindedly, and his brain again quiets with the restriction.
A hot palm over his thigh, skin shifting against the fabric. “Kneel.”
Alphonse chuckles even as he goes down, even as heat pools in his stomach. “Commanding, I like it.”
Byron smiles down at him from the foot of the bed, hand reaching out to bury in the dark curls of Alphonse’s hair. He pulls, lightly, and without any leverage against it, Alphonse tilts forward until his cheek presses firm against the inside of Byron’s leg, that firm ridge of the puckered scar on his inner thigh rough against his skin. “I’ve always wanted to see what it looks like if you only have your mouth to work with.”
“And you’re asking?”
“I think you’ll do it either way. Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He breathes.
Another light tug and then he’s nosing at the seam of Byron’s boxers.
Alphonse leans into it, looks up even as he opens up his lips and mouths at the cloth pointedly, watches Byron shift, eyes lidded as they look down in return, tan cheeks flushed hot. He travels from the seam of his thigh, in, to where the obvious outline of his cock bulges through the cloth. He sucks over Byron’s shaft through the fabric, moves up until his tongue laves where the head lies. It feels heady even to just stay here and let his mouth work, to tug at the bindings every so often and work that red burn into his wrists.
Fingers tighten in the roots of his curls and pull him back to the very centre, shove his face forward in a clear but silent message. Alphonse grips the edge of the fly with his teeth first, then turns and noses into the gap, curly hair then hot skin pressing against his nose and upper lip. The curve of Byron’s shaft takes shape under his lips, and soon his tongue and open mouth rest against it, suck gently against the skin and pull a light groan from Byron’s lips. Alphonse is determined, but even as he tries to close around it and pull it free, his grip falls loose or Byron’s cock stops, caught by the fly. As he goes in for another try, Byron’s hand pulls and stops him, slides carefully from hair to cheek to lips, curls a thumb inside his mouth and tugs to the side. “What do you want, huh?”
Alphonse licks his lips as the thumb withdraws and slides wet to his jaw, something unthought and instinctual as Byron’s warm but commanding honey brown eyes look down. “Wanna suck your cock.”
Byron’s eyes crease further, a punched out breath exhaled like Alphonse had just torn it from his windpipe. “You’re so fucking cute.”
Built, muscular, scarred and wired, one ear torn away by a bullet, by any categorisation made outside of the COI, serial killer. Byron looks down at Alphonse and finds the words to call him cute.
“I wanna suck you off until your soul leaves your body.”
Byron laughs then, loud and wheezing and sudden. “That's, uh,” his voice is thick, “Maybe don’t kill me quite yet.”
Alphonse lets the tight, mischievous grin take form on his face, leans forward in plans of undoing, closes his mouth over warm fabric and presses in, lids his eyes and flits them up. Hums.
“Fuck babe.” Byron’s voice crackles with want as his hand finally reaches down, pulls his cock through the fly and presses the tip against his lips. Alphonse lets it slide inside without hesitation, sucks softly at the tip before he pushes deeper, letting the shaft press into the soft warm wetness of his cheek. That same grip comes back to the roots of Alphonse’s hair and tightens, firm. His second hand, settled to the back of his skull. “This alright?”
Alphonse pops off the tip and Byron allows the movement, “Hell yeah.” He pushes up into the hand briefly like a butting cat. “Fuck my throat already. Pretty please.”
“Jesus.”
“That’s not my name babe.”
The softest, breathy laugh, then fingers grip once more and Alphonse’s lips close back around the tip of Byron’s warm shaft. “Snap your fingers if you want to stop.” The words cement the consuming heat burning within Alphonse, an unsaid statement of control. No talking.
Byron’s hand pulls Alphonse along his length, the palm at the back of Alphonse’s head firm and deliciously restrictive. His mouth takes the shaft deeper, the tip hitting the very back of his throat, where that slight pressure lies, where his breath muffles under it’s weight. Byron lets it sit for long seconds at that resistance. “So good for me.”
Then, another pull, the point of involuntary movement met where his head jolts as Byron’s cock breaches his throat and the few centimetres find home there. He holds it for a little, then can’t help the slight shudder as his throat spasms around it to expel the foreign object. Byron’s grip doesn’t lessen. He shudders again, head tugging against those fingers, and only after a few more seconds does Byron allow him to come part-way up, cock back over his tongue.
Then down again.
He laves against the underside, but can’t move all that much as he’s still held tight and soon shudders again, body tight with lack of breath. “God.” Byron groans. “You should see yourself. You were made for this.”
Up... A gasping, sucking breath... Down.
“You don’t belong out there.” Byron almost whispers it, like a secret. “You’re fucking made for this, mouth so much prettier around my cock, kneeling for a man. Bet those hands are made for this too, firm, strong. Shame you can’t use them.” A flash of heat, Alphonse’s eyes tearing up as he struggles. “Those muscles flex so pretty when you choke. Made strong just so I can watch them move. Made for fucking. Made for loving.” The last word burns with emphasis, and a wave of emotion erupts through Alphonse like a dam breaking. “Beast of the forest, kneels just for me. So good, perfect. So gentle for me.”
Alphonse melts into it, thoughts encased in warm fleece words and insistent hands, the pressure of heavy flesh and caught breath he must succumb to, the chafe of thick hemp rope that restricts all his sharp edges.
Up... then completely free after one still moment. Byron looking at him with a deep worry. “Wha...?” Alphonse mumbles through wet, reddened lips.
“Babe? You didn’t snap your fingers, did I say something wrong?”
“Huh?” Alphonse sniffs, cool air over the wet skin of his cheeks, blistering heat at the corners of his eyes, a pulling from his innards that might be visceral in force. The pull intensifies, strains, and he...
breaks.
An ugly sob, and then another, shoulders shuddering with the force of it as he goes limp with it, head falling into Byron’s thigh as his tears pour freely. “Jesus.” He manages.
It’s the first time he’s cried in... years?
Byron grabs his jaw gently, tilts it up to meet his gaze again, honey brown eyes creased with concern. “We can stop-”
“No!”
Byron’s hands still, frozen as the seconds stretch.
“Sorry- no- I just-” Alphonse gasps through sobs, and now an elation so strong he starts to laugh too. “This- this is so fucking stupid-”
“Tell me.”
“Holy shit, what did I do to deserve you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about” Byron starts, voice hissed stern despite still lingering distress. “You saved my life you idiot.”
And Alphonse sobs, laughs harder. “You just- you know exactly what to say.”
“My dirty talk?”
He nods through gasps for breath.
Byron’s face takes on a mix of new emotions, surprised, confused, shocked... a little proud. “Well I didn’t expect you to like it that much.”
The occasional hiccup of laughter still comes free, and tears still well in his eyes, but it’s no longer a struggle to breathe through, and Alphonse can speak semi-clearly once more, albeit voice still mildly wrecked. “You have a secret weapon babe. Don’t use it too much.”
“...What do you want now? We can do something else.”
“Damn.” Alphonse sniffs. “I didn’t snap my fingers, did I?”
Byron pauses.
Alphonse only waits, injects all the heat he can into one insistent look and can only hope it’s enough to supersede how wrecked he looks.
Or maybe work with it.
A second, then fingers back in his hair, grasping, pulling as he rocks forward with it, noses the tip of Byron’s cock, then just as quickly, swallows it back down. A noise from above, husky, half groan, half growl as Byron presses him so close his nose closes off completely. “So good. So good, taking me like this.” He pulls back, then starts to use Alphonse’s head, both hands at his skull, in... Down to the root... Out halfway... Back. “So obedient, but you choose to be. And that makes it so much better, doesn't it? To ask you for your hands and you turn around so fast...” He bottoms out and holds Alphonse there a few seconds longer than comfortable. “God.” He pulls back and Alphonse gasps a breath before being dragged in again. “You make me heady with power,” Byron grunts. “Fuck- You’re so fucking strong-” A panting breath, “and you just, de-claw so easily for me, roll over and take it. Like my bitch.” Alphonse groans around him in response and Byron tenses with it. “I’m gonna cum- Snap your fingers if you want me to pull out.”
Alphonse lets his hands fall limp in their binds, only looks up expectantly.
“Fucking hell.” Byron mutters quickly, another shuddering breath escaping as he buries himself in the tight heat of Alphonse’s throat, fucks fast and short and deep into it until he groans and shudders. Alphonse can feel it, disconcerting, and he chokes as Byron cums, so far down his throat it goes straight through to his stomach. Another moment as Byron’s dick twitches through the aftershocks and then he’s being pulled away, spit slick lips gasping for air as he falls free.
“Please.” Alphonse croaks, happy tears still welling in his eyes.
“I’ve got you babe I’ve got you.” Hands under his arms until he gets up on shaky legs, a palm on his chest until he sits back on the bed, Byron taking his place on the floor. Fingers hook over his waistband, rucks his boxers over his thighs to reveal dark mahogany brown skin, then his cock, flushed red and weeping at the tip, already jumping up into Byron’s fingers with a moan as he brushes the tip. “You loved that, huh.”
“Of c-” He chokes off as fingers wrap tight around the base, already slick from pre cum, and pump once from root to tip. His leg jumps, and Byron braces his other arm against it to keep it still. “Fuuck, I’m gonna cum so fast-”
Byron grins. “I can tell.”
Chapped lips brushing his glans, then the hot wet slickness of his tongue. “Ah-” Alphonse shudders as Byron’s mouth envelops the tip and descends, right to mid-way. A palm comes up to his navel and rucks his shirt up, exposes more skin for Byron’s short nails to grasp and dig into. Then, deeper, tight, and Alphonse almost loses it for the brief moment his shaft breaches Byron’s throat until he chokes and pulls off. “Oh my god.” Alphonse gasps, cock jumping with the jolt of heat down his spine, hands fisting in the covers behind his back.
“Damn, I can’t do that nearly as well.”
And before Alphonse can respond, the blistering heat of his mouth is back, words substituted with strangled groans and the rutting of his hips that’s quickly stilled by Byron’s firm, warm palms. Tongue laving, cheeks lightly hollowed, the bulge of Alphonse’s head distending Byron’s cheek as he fits more, closes a hand over the rest and twists.
“I’m-”
Byron holds him down, swallows as he cums, sucks through it until Alphonse shudders and twists in instinct to get away from the stimulation, finally withdrawing and letting his limp length fall to lie wet.
“When I said I wanted to suck out your soul-” Alphonse heaves another breath, heart thumping under his chest, “I didn’t mean to give you that idea.”
Byron laughs, breathy, upper body now resting over the bed. “You’re welcome.”
Alphonse just breathes, a comfortable stillness settled within him, muscles warm and buzzing like he’s just completed an intense workout. The good kind, like one of his runs through the chill morning air of the forest, the icy bite at the back of his throat something that makes him feel alive.
Skin touches his shoulder, then the warmth of one palm over his bicep as Byron sidles close and kisses his cheek, sickly sweet. “You want those off now?”
“Yes.” He gives one parting tug against his binds before Byron’s fingers are winding through the rope and it comes loose fast, falling into one hand then tossed to the floor.
Alphonse brings his newly freed hands back around to loop about Byron’s shoulders, wired strength taking hold to lever off the mattress like a wrestlers grapple just to hug him close and secure, sweaty skin to skin as he rubs his head into Byron’s collarbone like he could bury himself there. A startled grunt, then acquiescence with a chuckle as Byron’s own arms come around to lie over Alphonse’s back.
They lie. Distance between them not even a hair’s width apart. Minutes pass.
Fingers stroke between his shoulder blades.
“Sometimes I still have that dream,” Byron starts, voice low and close. “Spinning metal so fast I can’t see anything, waking up on the dirt, watching you walk through the wreckage.” He shifts his arms tighter around Alphonse. “I’m just frozen as you load the pistol and aim... I think- You have the same one?”
“Yeah.” Alphonse whispers.
Byron continues. “I have a different one too pretty often. I’m flying over a COI camp with the chopper, aiming to one side. You run out like a fucking idiot and get peppered with my bullets. Your body falls into the snow, and- it’s so limp, and-” He cuts off for one brief second. “That one’s worse.”
“Oh.”
“But here,” Byron’s voice tinges thicker with emotion, “here, how could I think of either of those things?” He snorts a breath. “You’re on your knees, sucking my dick... or you’re showing me another wooden bear cub when you already have at least ten, or you’re pointing out how one birdsong is new when we’re walking. Or you’re with me like this.”
Alphonse hums, finds his voice slow, like the small circles Byron’s fingers press into his nape. “When I have that dream... I have that knife in my hand again, and when I go to cut the tracker out of your leg, I just- I slit your throat instead.” He forces himself to look at Byron. There’s no immediate fear, or shock, so he continues. “It’s over in a second, and its so easy.” He presses his body impossibly closer. “And- I know I didn’t, but I could.” It sounds almost boastful. “I could grab the knife I use for whittling, or strangle you in your sleep, or snap your neck, or any number of things, and all I can see are weapons and methods. I know it isn’t real, I didn’t do that- but... I did think about it then too, in the crash. Killing you.”
Byron is silent, but his eyes are soft and kind, face smooth and unbothered. Alphonse feels the rest pour from his lips like a compulsion. “I left the room earlier because I felt like killing you. Went to the kitchen, I don’t know. But everything could be used. Even the fucking butter knife was too sharp.” Stating that sounds as if it all hinges around some utensil, god. “That stupid magazine was the only thing that wasn’t a tool-”
“Stupid?”
“-That awesome magazine, and-” He huffs a laugh. “You suggested that, and-”
“The bondage?”
“Yes.” He breathes it like a plea. “Even if I did do something, I wouldn’t be able to fight you. Didn’t have to think, anymore. Was... really fucking good. When you pulled me down it was like, like I could be good for you and nothing else.”
Byron grins. “Seems like sucking dick solves everything, huh.”
“Shut up.” He wheezes. Slaps Byron’s shoulder without force.
“I Love you.”
And it’s said with such intense earnestness, perhaps not fit for this moment, but digging it’s way into Alphonse’s ribcage until it demands return lest it tear his bones apart under the weight.
“Love you too.”
“Awwww. Babe...”
A snicker, then Byron’s tugging him back up to the top of the bed, tucking him close under the covers in a tangle of warm limbs.
It’s like that, then, in which Alphonse slowly falls into sleep.
Under the heavy comforter of Byron’s body, he dreams of nothing.