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Entry tags:
- 15 minute fic,
- fic,
- fma,
- gen
Fic - "Excellent Timing"
Title: "Excellent Timing"
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raja815
Characters/Fandom: Jean Havoc, Heymans Breda, and Roy Mustang. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 941
Warnings: Silliness. Public urination. Manga spoilers for chapter 87.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is © Hiromu Arakawa. I will make no capitol benefit from this.
Author's Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
15_minute_fic back in September. Prompt was "relief." Found it in my WIPs folder.
The only problem with doing their Friday night end-of-shift drinking at the Pitcher (a notoriously cheap dive bar that employed the bustiest barmaids in East City, two of whom Havoc swore up and down he had once seen kissing in the back alley when he was out having a smoke) was the walk back. Both Havoc and Breda had developed a loyalty to the Pitcher as new recruits, back when they lived in one of the shabbier NCO dormitories. Even now that they lived several miles away in military-subsidized apartments, and the buses stopped running by twelve on weeknights, and no cab driver in his right mind would pick anyone on that side of town after dark, they still preferred to preserve their time-honored Friday night ritual at the little tavern.
But the walk home could be a real bitch all the same.
“Fucking hell,” Havoc moaned, stopping mid-stride to nearly double over, hands thrust deeply into his pockets. His legs crossed so violently he seemed almost to pirouette. “Never needed a piss this bad in my entire life, I’m not joking.”
“Told you you shouldn’t’ve broken the seal before we left,” Breda said, with a hint of laughter. Watching his friend squirm around like a toddler was the most amusing thing that had happened all night, since the fabled hot lesbian barmaids had once again failed to manifest themselves. “It never fucking fails, man. You should know better.”
“I don’t need fucking lecturing,” Havoc grunted, and began scanning the street. “Come on, help me out. Is that Augustine place still open? It’s near here. Let’s duck in there for a minute—”
“We passed that place two blocks ago. And they shut down at two. Where’s your mind, Havo?”
“Floating away, most likely…” He squirmed again, and looked urgently right and left. His eyes lit on a small alleyway and he made a break for it. “Wait here.”
“We’ve only got a mile and a half left to go. Didn’t they teach you bladder discipline in basic?”
“Some friend you are,” Havoc admonished, from halfway to the alley’s entrance. “A real chum would put my comfort first.”
“It’s a fifteen-hundred sens fine for public urination if anyone catches you. And a bad conduct mark on your record. Come on, hold it like a man.”
“Who’s going to catch me?” Came the reply, from out of sight. Havoc had already disappeared into the alcove.
It turned out not to be an alley proper, but a long walkway leading to a small brick apartment building. There was a small stone stairway decorated on either side with potted privet hedges. Havoc grimaced, but a quick look up assured him that all the windows were darkened, their tenants asleep. He tried to weigh the consequences, but in the end the effect the thought of impending relief had had on his bladder left him no choice. He barely had time to open the buttons on his fly.
“What kind of idiot’s going to leave to go out at two in the morning?” He assured himself under his breath, and, with a long, shuddery gasp of relief that bordered on orgasmic, began to water one of the hedges.
He found out about fifteen seconds later.
The stream was picking up speed, and Havoc had closed his eyes in relief, aware of nothing but the rapidly diminishing pain in his bladder and the satisfying splatter of urine against the cobblestones, when the front door opened.
Roy Mustang, dressed in upscale attire and holding a green glass liquor bottle and an opener, stood illuminated in the light of the entryway. His face momentarily tightened with confusion, then lifted into a carefully measured expression of mild interest.
“Lieutenant Havoc,” he said, as though in greeting at some semi-formal occasion.
“Aw, shit,” Havoc said. He’d never once managed to stop the stream in mid-piss before, and certainly never when he’d been this desperate for relief, but this time, despite his bladder’s searing protests, he stopped it up. For a minute, at least.
“Among other things,” Mustang agreed, the edges of his lips quirking up.
“I didn’t know you lived here,” Havoc said, fumbling to get himself put away. “Honestly, I—”
“I don’t,” Mustang said, and indicated the half-empty bottle of wine. “I’m on my way home from a date. I was set to stay the night, but I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of a falling out.”
“Oh… uh…” Havoc squirmed, both in discomfort at this line of conversation and in worry that if he didn’t make an escape soon, his long-suffering bladder would simple resort to autopilot and finish the job. “That really… I’m, uh, sorry.”
“No need to be.” Mustang stepped out, and stepped smartly over the threshold to stand behind Havoc. “She had some rather unkind things to say about another woman I know. A woman name of Christmas, it was, who runs a certain kind of establishment that this particular lady doesn’t approve of.”
To Havoc’s surprise, he found Mustang not only standing behind him, but turning him away from the potted privet hedge and toward the doorway.
“Uh, Sir…” Havoc said, and yelped in surprise when he felt Mustang’s hands at his crotch, undoing the hastily done-up-buttons. He barely managed to keep the floodgates closed.
“Such an opinionated lady,” Mustang mused, tsking his tongue sadly as he took Havoc’s dick in hand and aimed it toward the still-open doorway. “Well, Lieutenant? What are you waiting for? Do carry on.”
Author:
raja815Characters/Fandom: Jean Havoc, Heymans Breda, and Roy Mustang. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 941
Warnings: Silliness. Public urination. Manga spoilers for chapter 87.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is © Hiromu Arakawa. I will make no capitol benefit from this.
Author's Notes: Written for
15_minute_fic back in September. Prompt was "relief." Found it in my WIPs folder.The only problem with doing their Friday night end-of-shift drinking at the Pitcher (a notoriously cheap dive bar that employed the bustiest barmaids in East City, two of whom Havoc swore up and down he had once seen kissing in the back alley when he was out having a smoke) was the walk back. Both Havoc and Breda had developed a loyalty to the Pitcher as new recruits, back when they lived in one of the shabbier NCO dormitories. Even now that they lived several miles away in military-subsidized apartments, and the buses stopped running by twelve on weeknights, and no cab driver in his right mind would pick anyone on that side of town after dark, they still preferred to preserve their time-honored Friday night ritual at the little tavern.
But the walk home could be a real bitch all the same.
“Fucking hell,” Havoc moaned, stopping mid-stride to nearly double over, hands thrust deeply into his pockets. His legs crossed so violently he seemed almost to pirouette. “Never needed a piss this bad in my entire life, I’m not joking.”
“Told you you shouldn’t’ve broken the seal before we left,” Breda said, with a hint of laughter. Watching his friend squirm around like a toddler was the most amusing thing that had happened all night, since the fabled hot lesbian barmaids had once again failed to manifest themselves. “It never fucking fails, man. You should know better.”
“I don’t need fucking lecturing,” Havoc grunted, and began scanning the street. “Come on, help me out. Is that Augustine place still open? It’s near here. Let’s duck in there for a minute—”
“We passed that place two blocks ago. And they shut down at two. Where’s your mind, Havo?”
“Floating away, most likely…” He squirmed again, and looked urgently right and left. His eyes lit on a small alleyway and he made a break for it. “Wait here.”
“We’ve only got a mile and a half left to go. Didn’t they teach you bladder discipline in basic?”
“Some friend you are,” Havoc admonished, from halfway to the alley’s entrance. “A real chum would put my comfort first.”
“It’s a fifteen-hundred sens fine for public urination if anyone catches you. And a bad conduct mark on your record. Come on, hold it like a man.”
“Who’s going to catch me?” Came the reply, from out of sight. Havoc had already disappeared into the alcove.
It turned out not to be an alley proper, but a long walkway leading to a small brick apartment building. There was a small stone stairway decorated on either side with potted privet hedges. Havoc grimaced, but a quick look up assured him that all the windows were darkened, their tenants asleep. He tried to weigh the consequences, but in the end the effect the thought of impending relief had had on his bladder left him no choice. He barely had time to open the buttons on his fly.
“What kind of idiot’s going to leave to go out at two in the morning?” He assured himself under his breath, and, with a long, shuddery gasp of relief that bordered on orgasmic, began to water one of the hedges.
He found out about fifteen seconds later.
The stream was picking up speed, and Havoc had closed his eyes in relief, aware of nothing but the rapidly diminishing pain in his bladder and the satisfying splatter of urine against the cobblestones, when the front door opened.
Roy Mustang, dressed in upscale attire and holding a green glass liquor bottle and an opener, stood illuminated in the light of the entryway. His face momentarily tightened with confusion, then lifted into a carefully measured expression of mild interest.
“Lieutenant Havoc,” he said, as though in greeting at some semi-formal occasion.
“Aw, shit,” Havoc said. He’d never once managed to stop the stream in mid-piss before, and certainly never when he’d been this desperate for relief, but this time, despite his bladder’s searing protests, he stopped it up. For a minute, at least.
“Among other things,” Mustang agreed, the edges of his lips quirking up.
“I didn’t know you lived here,” Havoc said, fumbling to get himself put away. “Honestly, I—”
“I don’t,” Mustang said, and indicated the half-empty bottle of wine. “I’m on my way home from a date. I was set to stay the night, but I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of a falling out.”
“Oh… uh…” Havoc squirmed, both in discomfort at this line of conversation and in worry that if he didn’t make an escape soon, his long-suffering bladder would simple resort to autopilot and finish the job. “That really… I’m, uh, sorry.”
“No need to be.” Mustang stepped out, and stepped smartly over the threshold to stand behind Havoc. “She had some rather unkind things to say about another woman I know. A woman name of Christmas, it was, who runs a certain kind of establishment that this particular lady doesn’t approve of.”
To Havoc’s surprise, he found Mustang not only standing behind him, but turning him away from the potted privet hedge and toward the doorway.
“Uh, Sir…” Havoc said, and yelped in surprise when he felt Mustang’s hands at his crotch, undoing the hastily done-up-buttons. He barely managed to keep the floodgates closed.
“Such an opinionated lady,” Mustang mused, tsking his tongue sadly as he took Havoc’s dick in hand and aimed it toward the still-open doorway. “Well, Lieutenant? What are you waiting for? Do carry on.”