|ffq_mod (ffq_mod) wrote in fma_fuh_q,|
@ 2007-08-09 00:20:00
|Entry tags:||archer, bradley, fic, month 16|
Archer x Fuhrer Bradley
Original poster: lizzystrata
Word Count: 996
It seemed that all of Archer’s muscles had ceased in their operations. His shoulder blades had long since been pulled taut. His back ached slightly. He knew instinctively why it was so, yet still his mind refused to wrap around the concept: failure. That is why the Fuhrer, his Fuhrer, had summoned him. To openly contemplate Archer’s perceived failure. He had not caught that Ishballan scum and now it was time to pay the price.
Archer stood toe-to-toe with the brusque mahogany of the door. His aristocratically pointed nose brushed slightly against the curvature of the detailed inlays. Such a powerful and impressive door, yet it was nothing compared to the powerful and impressive man inside, waiting for Archer. The whole military knew that anyone who kept the Fuhrer waiting had Hell to pay.
The Fuhrer had only summoned Archer after hours once in the past, and that had been the night before Archer was officially promoted to Colonel. He had fearlessly walked through the dark hallways towards his prize, like a show-pony parading towards the award podium: a guaranteed crown of flowers and possibly some sugar cubes soon to follow. He had received a promotion and an invitation for more that he simply couldn’t have refused. The Fuhrer King had become his for one beautiful night.
Archer had made the walk through the dark hallways to the office door slowly, like a man walking to the gallows with no hope of clemency. Now here, he had no choice but to enter and face his failure head on. Surely he had been staring at this door long enough, feeling his muscles tense in fear and anticipation.
With his well-bred head held high, he rapped the door once with his knuckles, swift and hard. The Fuhrer could not have been expecting anyone else, as the hallways were dark unless someone walked through and triggered the motion-sensor lights. Archer had triggered each and every one on the entire floor on the way to the Fuhrer’s office. He was certain the building had been almost completely vacant for more than an hour.
“Come in, Archer.”
The curt reply scared Frank. He was unsure that he had ever heard that exact tone leveled at someone. He bit the bullet (did he really have a choice?) and entered the luxurious executive office. His Fuhrer sat behind a massive desk made out of black marble. The leather chair he sat in was a monstrosity of black leather, with a high and imposing back that curved up, almost higher than the Fuhrer’s head. Bradley’s pose was relaxed; his hands were interlaced and rested neatly on the desktop. But his eyes told a different story; they were accusatory.
“You know why you are here, do you not?”
Archer knew. He felt the weight of his own shortcoming heavily upon his shoulders. “I do, sir.” Archer’s eyes were downcast; he had enjoyed being the Fuhrer’s show-pony. He liked the treats and the attention. “I don’t believe that you do, Colonel. The title slithered out of his mouth like a poisonous snake. Frank was almost completely sure that the “Title Python” was heading towards the most sensitive part of his neck. “Bradley, I…”
Archer knew he had overstepped. Still the urge to call out something, anything to end this estrangement had overridden his good sense. Bradley’s expression flared at the brief lapse in decorum but returned to the normal façade almost expertly. “You go too far, Frank.” He stood up, as graceful as a pit viper. “Your failure cannot be overlooked. How hard can it possibly be to catch a man with a fucking scar on his face?” The curse word escaped his lips like a dagger, but the rest seemed to float out serenely. Archer knew that the danger was immediate. The impenetrable gaze of the Fuhrer locked on his own, and he was filled with a sense of dread.
“I only mean to please you, sir.”
The slap had resounded through his eardrums before he could even feel the sting or see the Fuhrer move across the room. Bradley stood directly in front of him, his anger livid across his previously calm face. “Then do your job, Colonel. You continue to be incompetent and I am forced to take action. Remove your clothes.”
Archer twitched slightly at the request. But he was a good soldier. And a good Colonel. He would never, ever question a direct order from a higher up. Archer elegantly undid the buttons of his uniform jacket, starting at the top. He efficiently proceeded to remove his military issue undershirt as well, exposing the delicate plains of his porcelain skin. He heard Bradley draw in a sharp breath. For all his bravado, he seemed awed slightly by Archer’s body. Archer reached for the buttons of his pants but Bradley got there first. With a grunt, he pulled on them, ripping them off Archer at the seams. Archer bent forwards and removed his shoes and socks professionally, as if this was a common business request.
Bradley knew it was not. This was also not a common punishment within the military; demotion was more likely. Yet Frank Archer was his pet, his favorite. It was time to show him the cost of failure. Archer stood divested of everything, his boxers a casualty of the Fuhrer’s impassioned strip-down. He was exquisite; his very fair limbs exposed under the harsh fluorescent bulbs; his head submissively downcast. The Fuhrer undid his own pants. “And now, Frank, it is time for you to demonstrate your loyalty to the cause.” Frank looked up when he heard the zipper of Bradley’s pants give way. Bradley had chosen not to wear underwear for the simple reason of seeing the immediate reaction plaster itself onto Frank Archer’s face. And he was not disappointed. Suck was the final command he delivered and Archer had not hesitated to drop to his knees and worship the closest thing he had to a God.