Fic - "ABC Kink - F for Foot Worship"
Feb. 18th, 2009 02:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rajTitle: ABC Kink - "F for Foot Worship"
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raja815
Character/Fandom: Jean Havoc/Roy Mustang. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 874
Warnings: Sexuality. Foot worship.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is © Hiromu Arakawa. I will make no capitol benefit from this.
for “Foot Worship”
Roy Mustang had beautiful feet.
Jean Havoc did not find this surprising; everything about Roy Mustang was beautiful (or at least the disappointingly few bits of him that Jean had seen so far were beautiful.) Rather, he met the discovery with pleasure, excitement, and delight at the knowledge that his many nights of fantasy had been right on the mark.
It took him months to get ballsy enough to actually carry out his idea. He’d actually begun to think he’d never do it; that this, like so many other fantasies, was doomed never to play out. But one day the planets aligned, and after eleven hours in the office and with four more to go before went home, Roy had looked so stressed and exhausted and badly in need of comfort, any comfort, that Jean had taken the chance.
Mustang looked a bit surprised at the idea of a foot massage, but he accepted at once. Jean was glad of that; he’d had a speech prepared about how most people carried tension in their feet, but he was already flustered and half-aroused with anticipation and he doubted he could’ve gotten through it.
Jean settled his colonel on the sofa in the corner of Mustang's private office, got him a mug of tea, turned down the lamp and set the radio on a staticy but soothing classical broadcast. He knelt on the floor in front of his commander and looked up.
“Just relax, Sir, you’ll feel much better soon,” Jean promised. Mustang, looking blindsided at his Lieutenant’s uncharacteristic generosity, managed a nod.
“Er… thank you, Havoc.”
“My pleasure, Sir. Really.” He smiled like a kid about to break into a gigantic stack of birthday presents, causing a look of faint disquiet to swim over Mustang’s face.
Pulling off Roy’s socks made Jean’s stomach feel fluttery. As the second one stretched off of Roy’s foot and flopped limply into his hand, he caught a whiff of laundry soap, some kind of foot powder, and just the faintest pungent hint of fresh sweat. It hit him like a bullet, and suddenly he was raging hard and struggling to bite back a moan.
He would’ve liked to take a moment to simply look, to stare in reverent awe at the handsome feet before him, but that might’ve made Roy suspicious. So he set in with a kneading pressure on the left, and looked as he worked.
They were absolutely pale, looking almost pure white against the backdrop of the darkened room, long and thin, but not boney or pinched-looking. The tendons stood out just enough to paint the skin with artistic shadows. There were rough patches of callus on the balls and heel, but no scabbed spots where blisters were healing, no whitish patches of dead skin. The toes were a wonder tenfold; lengthy and slightly plump on the ends, making the tips look round, and Jean wanted badly to put them in his mouth and suck, running his tongue over them and nibbling that extra softness of flesh. There was a faint dusting of fine black hair at the knuckle of each great toe, and the great toes themselves turned out a bit, seeming to cozy up to the slightly longer second toes as if they, like Jean, longed to kiss them. The nails were neatly cut, shiny and thick.
Jean felt another warm tremor swell through his balls and belly as he moved to the right foot, sliding his fingers between the pretty toes, caressing the softer skin between them. Above him, Mustang stifled a snort of laughter and the digits curled under.
Ticklish, thought Jean, and another surge of lust washed over him, making him giddy. He pressed again and Mustang laughed out loud.
Encouraged by the happy sound from his typically stoic commander, Jean went on. He touched Mustang's feet every way he knew how: kneading, rubbing, stroking, tapping gently over pulse points, circling, grabbing, holding them together and pressing as though he were playing a concertina, all the while biting his lips to keep from whimpering, trying to rock stealthily back and forth, letting the tension of cloth against his erection ease some of the ache. He was desperately horny. His head—well, heads—felt seconds away from exploding, and he knew he should stop before he went too far and did something stupid.
Just a few more minutes, he thought, bargaining with himself. I know it’s risky, but you’ll never ever get another chance so… just… just a few minutes more…
Mustang, who was feeling more relaxed than he had since he'd enlisted, suddenly yawned and stretched. His leg extended, pushing his foot through Jean’s grip. His ankle popped, and he curled his toes under. The tip of the slightly longer second toe brushed against the hard lump in Jean’s pants, too softly for Mustang to notice. Not Jean, though. Jean noticed it just fine.
“Havoc, you’re amazing,” Mustang started, but was abruptly cut off when Jean shuddered, gave a high, whining cry, and bolted red-faced from the room, holding a handful of his cavalry skirt over the small, spreading stain at his crotch.
6/26
Early today, because my internet at home isn't working, so I'm having to use the school wireless network. See you guys tomorrow for letter G. :)
Author/Artist:
raja815Character/Fandom: Jean Havoc/Roy Mustang. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 874
Warnings: Sexuality. Foot worship.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is © Hiromu Arakawa. I will make no capitol benefit from this.
for “Foot Worship”Roy Mustang had beautiful feet.
Jean Havoc did not find this surprising; everything about Roy Mustang was beautiful (or at least the disappointingly few bits of him that Jean had seen so far were beautiful.) Rather, he met the discovery with pleasure, excitement, and delight at the knowledge that his many nights of fantasy had been right on the mark.
It took him months to get ballsy enough to actually carry out his idea. He’d actually begun to think he’d never do it; that this, like so many other fantasies, was doomed never to play out. But one day the planets aligned, and after eleven hours in the office and with four more to go before went home, Roy had looked so stressed and exhausted and badly in need of comfort, any comfort, that Jean had taken the chance.
Mustang looked a bit surprised at the idea of a foot massage, but he accepted at once. Jean was glad of that; he’d had a speech prepared about how most people carried tension in their feet, but he was already flustered and half-aroused with anticipation and he doubted he could’ve gotten through it.
Jean settled his colonel on the sofa in the corner of Mustang's private office, got him a mug of tea, turned down the lamp and set the radio on a staticy but soothing classical broadcast. He knelt on the floor in front of his commander and looked up.
“Just relax, Sir, you’ll feel much better soon,” Jean promised. Mustang, looking blindsided at his Lieutenant’s uncharacteristic generosity, managed a nod.
“Er… thank you, Havoc.”
“My pleasure, Sir. Really.” He smiled like a kid about to break into a gigantic stack of birthday presents, causing a look of faint disquiet to swim over Mustang’s face.
Pulling off Roy’s socks made Jean’s stomach feel fluttery. As the second one stretched off of Roy’s foot and flopped limply into his hand, he caught a whiff of laundry soap, some kind of foot powder, and just the faintest pungent hint of fresh sweat. It hit him like a bullet, and suddenly he was raging hard and struggling to bite back a moan.
He would’ve liked to take a moment to simply look, to stare in reverent awe at the handsome feet before him, but that might’ve made Roy suspicious. So he set in with a kneading pressure on the left, and looked as he worked.
They were absolutely pale, looking almost pure white against the backdrop of the darkened room, long and thin, but not boney or pinched-looking. The tendons stood out just enough to paint the skin with artistic shadows. There were rough patches of callus on the balls and heel, but no scabbed spots where blisters were healing, no whitish patches of dead skin. The toes were a wonder tenfold; lengthy and slightly plump on the ends, making the tips look round, and Jean wanted badly to put them in his mouth and suck, running his tongue over them and nibbling that extra softness of flesh. There was a faint dusting of fine black hair at the knuckle of each great toe, and the great toes themselves turned out a bit, seeming to cozy up to the slightly longer second toes as if they, like Jean, longed to kiss them. The nails were neatly cut, shiny and thick.
Jean felt another warm tremor swell through his balls and belly as he moved to the right foot, sliding his fingers between the pretty toes, caressing the softer skin between them. Above him, Mustang stifled a snort of laughter and the digits curled under.
Ticklish, thought Jean, and another surge of lust washed over him, making him giddy. He pressed again and Mustang laughed out loud.
Encouraged by the happy sound from his typically stoic commander, Jean went on. He touched Mustang's feet every way he knew how: kneading, rubbing, stroking, tapping gently over pulse points, circling, grabbing, holding them together and pressing as though he were playing a concertina, all the while biting his lips to keep from whimpering, trying to rock stealthily back and forth, letting the tension of cloth against his erection ease some of the ache. He was desperately horny. His head—well, heads—felt seconds away from exploding, and he knew he should stop before he went too far and did something stupid.
Just a few more minutes, he thought, bargaining with himself. I know it’s risky, but you’ll never ever get another chance so… just… just a few minutes more…
Mustang, who was feeling more relaxed than he had since he'd enlisted, suddenly yawned and stretched. His leg extended, pushing his foot through Jean’s grip. His ankle popped, and he curled his toes under. The tip of the slightly longer second toe brushed against the hard lump in Jean’s pants, too softly for Mustang to notice. Not Jean, though. Jean noticed it just fine.
“Havoc, you’re amazing,” Mustang started, but was abruptly cut off when Jean shuddered, gave a high, whining cry, and bolted red-faced from the room, holding a handful of his cavalry skirt over the small, spreading stain at his crotch.
6/26
Early today, because my internet at home isn't working, so I'm having to use the school wireless network. See you guys tomorrow for letter G. :)
