It's a convenient excuse to blame that fuck at the Gate, so Ed tries not to.
However it was that he's ended up the way he is, he's the one who has to deal with it, so it seems pointless to debate the whys. Consequence of his very particular childhood, his very particular brain, or more subtle fuckery than that Gate fuck is usually prone to, the truth—ha—is that Ed is fucked in the head.
The proof: it's Friday night, and he's hip-deep in the finest scum Central's streets have to offer, and he feels more alive than he has all week.
He lands a punch that drops his current guy, and likely broke a few teeth. He can feel his grin, and it's probably the one that makes people look at him funny and edge away.
Alphonse has the same genetics and an even more brilliant brain, and a somewhat similar childhood—at least as compared to the average person—and he's turned out perfectly, more than perfectly. So it's just Ed who's fucked, and that's fine, that's great, he wouldn't want it any other way, but it does leave him the additional problem of needing to hide the occasional instances of blood on his clothes and sometimes an injury that's hard to explain.
These last three idiots attack all at once, getting in each other's way and making Ed's night, because he gets to set them up for a fucking awesome flying kick-punch combo that he's actually sad no one else gets to see. It rocks, and the three of them go down without landing a single pathetic hit on him. That's a bit of a letdown, actually; he cools down faster with a bit of bruising on him.
His blood is pumping, and the whole sad lot of them are groaning on the pavement. He wishes that at least one of them had been a bit of a challenge. Central's standard of thug is really fucking lacking lately, is all. He hadn't even bothered with his armblade.
He transmutes all their shirts into rope and ties them up nice for the unlucky bastards who'll get to come scoop them up into the loving arms of Central's police force.
So now the choice: anonymous tip, or—hmm. He actually wouldn't mind going a few rounds with Mustang tonight, since this lot were such a fucking disappointment.
He walks a few blocks over to the nearest working phone booth, and calls General Bastard himself. It's past midnight, but he'll still be awake. If he isn't, he'll wake up for Ed no problem.
Mustang answers, and Ed feels himself grinning again. Awake, and not too drunk to come meet him. Good.
"Hey, bastard. Got a present for you."
"Edward. Have you been terrorising Central's criminals again? You know they're running out of jail cells in the city thanks to this hobby of yours."
"Eh, this lot are small time, they won't need room and board for long. Wanna come get me? I got seven fucks here on suspicion of being too dumb for their own jobs, or I guess for assault with intent if you want. And then I got a whole Friday night left to kill and no more fuckers to punch, so..."
Mustang snorts. "And you're so sure I have nothing better to do on my Friday night? Arrogant as ever, Fullmetal."
Ed rolls his eyes, confident that Mustang will know he's done it even down a phone line. He's good like that. "Well, let's see. You're all over roses for "single-handedly" cleaning up the streets thanks to me and don't tell me you don't love that. Looking great and you didn't even do anything, so I think getting a good fuck on top of that is kind of an embarrassment of fucking riches."
"Mmm," says Mustang, and he's let his voice drop a register because he fucking knows what it does to Ed and he wants a little payback. Fine. "I do like looking good. Where are you?"
Ed tells him where he left his captured goons, and checks his pocket watch. Entirely mundane these days, but people expect him to have one. It's one of those things it's easier not to argue about. "Clock's ticking, bastard. Make me wait too long, I'll get bored and then who knows."
"I hope my driving meets your exacting standards as usual, Fullmetal," purrs Mustang, and hangs up before Ed can bitch him out any more. Ed's torn, he wants Mustang here five minutes ago, but now he has to walk back to the tied up morons and watch them struggle until his ride gets here, and that's no fun at all. Maybe one of them will wriggle free and give him something to do.
He heads back to his pack of shirtless captives, and his arrival scares off an enterprising street kid, who was taking advantage of Ed's ropes to scoop up the former contents of the various shirt pockets. Whatever, the kid can have whatever he found, Ed doesn't care. Worse luck, all the goons are still secure and mostly conscious enough to be yelling threats at him. They're not even very creative.
He amuses himself transmuting gargoyles onto the old buildings in the street until Mustang shows up, flashily, in his shiny black car. The vain bastard has taken the time to pretty himself up and put his uniform back on, the better to look the picture of dedication to duty even after midnight. Ed supposes the cops—and perhaps some reporters who were mysteriously in the area—will be showing up any second.
"Hey, bastard," he says, flicking his eyes up under his lashes the way Mustang is completely fucking weak for. "Good driving, hope the lamp posts all survived."
Mustang looks him up and down, fast and practiced and hardly visible to observers, just like the career manwhore he is. It's especially impressive these days, what with the eye patch. His lips kick up at the edges; he's caught Ed's mood and he's definitely up for the kind of night Ed wants to provide. Fucking awesome. "The lamp posts of Central are doing far better than the buildings, Fullmetal. Gargoyles again, really?"
Ed shrugs. "Shoulda been faster. I warned you."
"Well. At least it doesn't look like any of your playmates are going to need the hospital this time. Or you, for that matter."
"That's because they sucked. So how do you want to play this one, General Bastard? Am I getting my picture taken tonight, or am I waiting in the car?"
Mustang looks amused, in that way where he doesn't actually change his face at all. "I don't know whether I celebrate or rue the day you got your first clue about politics. Wait in the car unless the police need you. You look more like a thug than your criminals do tonight."
It's probably the addition of the sleeveless leather jacket, the one Ed stole off one of last week's idiots. He steps up close, murmurs straight into Mustang's ear. "Good thing you like your rough trade, then. Hurry it up." And he slides into the back seat, the better to let the shadows fall over him. He sees Mustang freeze in place for just a second, getting hold of himself, and it's the normal-person equivalent of a swoon. Ed grins to himself. Yeah, tonight's going to be good.
The cops show in short order, faster for General Mustang than they would have been for civilian contractor Edward 'we pretend we don't recognise your voice, but we do' Elric and his 'anonymous' tips. Whatever, it's not like Ed usually sticks around to wait for them.
No reporters tonight; there must be something more interesting happening elsewhere. The cops' captain speaks to Mustang for a few minutes, glancing a little warily at the car as if he thinks Ed's going to jump out and bite him. It's kind of hilarious. Apparently he decides he doesn't need a statement from Ed, because Mustang nods to him and gets back into the driver's seat.
"You do seem to be gathering a reputation with the police, Fullmetal. That man was actually afraid to speak to you, did you see?"
Ed snorts. "Guilty conscience. You should check him out."
Mustang smiles. Actually, visible-to-others, smiles. Cool. "I think garden-variety fear of the man who strips and ties up groups of nasty characters for his Friday night entertainment is perfectly understandable."
"Yeah? What's your excuse, then, when you're taking that man home to fuck him?"
"Well," says Mustang, slow and teasing, "I know something the Captain doesn't. You're perfectly docile once you're stripped and tied up yourself, if one doesn't mind a tussle getting you there."
Yeah. Yeah, that was why he'd called Mustang tonight. He'd give Ed what he needed, push him down and hold him under, and it wouldn't be giving up because Mustang could take him on a good day. If he couldn't have a satisfying fight tonight, then this was so close to being as good. "Drive faster," he suggested, the shark grin in his voice again.
"Your wish," Mustang says, the bullshitter. But he does drive, and Ed uses the rest of the ride to consider what he wants out of General Bastard tonight. Besides the basic plan of a damn good fuck, that is. By the time they swing into Mustang's driveway, Ed's sure of only one thing, and that's that he's still keyed up as hell and he needs, needs Mustang to bring him down.
He's out of the car and in Mustang's hallway before Mustang's even finished with the car. He gets a raised eyebrow for transmuting his way through the locked door, but if Mustang really minded he'd have stopped him doing it last time as well. It's almost like he's giving Ed his own key, and there's a thought. The man's a grade-A ass, but he is a reliably great fuck. Maybe Ed should show up more often.
Ed kicks his boots off next to Mustang's neatly placed shoes with a feeling of satisfaction. He loves messing up Mustang's military neatness whenever he possibly can, and he loves messing Mustang himself up even more. Time to get on that. He shrugs his jacket off and tosses it at the coat rack.
"Would you like a drink?" Mustang's actually heading toward the sitting room, as if Ed wants to sit around drinking whiskey when he's like this.
"No drink." He tries the trick again where he looks up through his lashes, hoping he looks as ready to get fucked as he feels. And fucking yes, Mustang apparently just can't resist it when Ed does that, because he turns on his heel and gets right up in Ed's face. Ed will never tell him, under pain of anything at all, that these days he likes that Mustang is just that much taller than he is. Likes that Mustang can cover him with his entire body, give Ed something to fight against, to submit to once Mustang's earned it.
"Perhaps a drink later, then," Mustang says, and his voice is already rough, and Ed can feel the heat coming off him. It's almost as if the bastard's blood is calling to his, and fuck but Ed wants this. Whatever he feels like dishing out tonight. "What do you need, Edward?"
Ed gives him a biting kiss. "I want you to put me down hard, and make it hurt. Rest is up to you, bastard. 'm gonna make you work for it."
Mustang tangles a hand in Ed's ponytail and pulls his head back so he can look him in the eye, apparently doing some General Bastard people-sorcery like he does, reading Ed's mood. Then he kisses Ed, hard, and pulls his hair tighter so he can bite at Ed's throat. Ed goes from antsy and half-hard to fucking gagging for it the second Mustang bites down, and he grinds up against the bastard and his immaculate uniform.
"Bedroom, Edward," Mustang commands, and half-drags, half-pushes Ed up the stairs with his hand still wrapped tight in his hair. Ed could get away, but he doesn't really want to. He can feel himself starting to fuzz around the edges, his focus softening as Mustang takes control of him. It's a goddamn fucking relief, is what. Ed's dangerous, he knows he is, half-crazy and fighting so hard to point his worst tendencies in directions that might do some good. When Mustang's got him he knows he can't fuck up too much, he can fight and kick and all that's going to happen is that Mustang will kick back and tie him down. Every time he comes here, Ed wonders why it took him so long to come back.
They get to the bedroom, Mustang with his hand tight in his hair and Ed's left arm twisted up behind his back. He shoves Ed onto the bed face-first and lands on top of him, his weight pushing him down into the bedclothes. For a second it feels so good to be so completely covered, to have that weight so firmly on him, surrounded by Mustang's familiar, exciting scent that he just wants to go limp and let it take him. But the fight's still in him, he's still aching for the feeling of bruises rising under his skin. Still needs to see his blood smeared across Mustang's pale skin, and so he bucks Mustang off, flips himself over and gets his legs over Mustang's hips and his hands pressing down on his uniformed arms.
It'd be a good hold if he really wanted it to be; they both know that of the two of them, Ed is far, far better at close-quarters combat. The important thing, though, is that Mustang is meaner, and also that Ed doesn't really want to come out on top of this fight. He gets a few good grinds in, rubbing his aching dick against Mustang's, before the magnificent bastard slips the shoulder hold and slaps him hard across the face.
Ed can actually feel his pupils dilate as his head snaps to the side, and he moans. Fuck. His cheek smarts, and the spark cloth in Mustang's gloves feels like it's scraped his skin straight across his face. Damn, Ed hopes he'll do that again.
"Not tonight, Fullmetal," Mustang says, that hard, commanding voice that really gets Ed going. He slaps him again, on the other cheek, and the motherfucking endorphin rush distracts Ed enough that Mustang flips them again, sits on Ed's back and presses Ed's face into the covers. He can't breathe, and the weight on his back is making his shoulder plate dig into his skin. He rides the feeling, revels in it for a bit before he twists to get his legs under him, back muscles screaming at him.
He pushes himself up on his knees, shaking Mustang off, but he's still right there on him, pressed up tight to his back, his arm a bar across Ed's throat and his cock hard against Ed's ass.
"I hope you don't like this shirt too much," he says, silky smooth, and the bastard actually fucking snaps. The flame he drags down Ed's chest parts his shirt and warms his skin to the point of delicious pain, but it doesn't burn him. Fucking show pony asshole, why does Ed have to find him so hot. But damn, that was hot, and Mustang's arm across his throat is making it just hard enough to breathe to keep this position fun.
Mustang scrapes his gloved hand hard up Ed's abs and chest, the sandpaper-roughness of the spark cloth making him moan and tip his head back against Mustang's shoulder. He rubs mercilessly over Ed's peaked nipples, pinching, rubbing and rolling them until the slightest brush is painful. His cock is leaking steadily in his pants, he's so hard. If he had breath to speak past the way Mustang's controlling his airflow, he'd snarl at him to hurry the fuck up and really touch him.
"I wish you could see what you look like, Fullmetal," Mustang says, sounding totally unaffected. "You're a mess. I think I could make you come in your pants if I just hurt you enough like this. One day I will. Tie you up and play with everything except your cock until you make a mess all over yourself just from the pain."
Ed makes an involuntary whimpering noise, which would be embarrassing if Mustang didn't like it so much that he groans and bites Ed hard on the shoulder. His teeth fucking hurt, and Ed knows he's going to have a beautiful bruise. Maybe he's even broken the skin. He hopes so; he'd like wearing a scar from this evening, from this lover. And the thought of seeing his own blood on Mustang's lips makes him crazy.
Mustang releases him, then, lets him drop forward and try to catch his breath. He's wild with it, the points of pain throbbing on his chest, his shoulder, the almost-burned line down his front. "Come on, you bastard," he growls, his voice hoarse. "Are you ever going to fuck me?"
He jumps when Mustang's hand cracks across his leather-clad ass, three times, fast. He can't really feel it as well as he'd like; it'd be better on his bare skin, but the sound of it is shattering. His breath comes in gasps.
"Get your pants off," Mustang tells him, an edge in his voice that tells Ed he's getting pretty fucking worked up himself. Ed used to think he only smacked Ed around because Ed wanted him to, but lately he's revised his theory. Mustang likes marking him up, and that makes everything feel even better. He shimmies out of his pants as fast as is possible, what with leather and automail, and watches Mustang as he peels himself out of his uniform.
Ed's usually tied down for this bit. He wonders what to do with his ability to move around; should he take advantage of Mustang's preoccupation to run, get caught and put down again? He doesn't; he wants Mustang's dick too much now to risk delaying the spectacular fuck that has to be coming. He lays down on the bed again, playing with his sore nipples while he watches Mustang and his meticulous, ridiculous fucking routine with his uniform.
But he's rewarded; Mustang keeps the belt in his hand, and Ed flips over without a word being spoken. Yes, this, and then he'll be able to sleep tonight.
The leather cracks down on his thighs, his ass, his back; bright stripes of heat and peace on his scarred skin. It's not many strokes; Mustang must be really ready to get his cock in him. If he gets out his belt he's usually more thorough, but Ed's not complaining if it gets him fucked sooner.
Mustang kneels in front of him, stroking shining lube onto his cock. Ed can't take his eyes off of it; Mustang isn't that much larger than average, but he knows what's probably about to happen and it always, always makes him tense.
Mustang raises an eyebrow at him, and Ed nods once.
They've done this before; Mustang knows Ed can take him like this, loves taking him like this, unprepared, but that it scares him. It's perfect, pain and fear and the bliss of being full, being taken and mastered, and Mustang shoving into him hard and unprepared makes him cry out where little else Mustang does can.
Ed shivers at the feel of Mustang's heat behind him, as Mustang pushes Ed's knees apart and settles between them.
"Fuck, just do it," Ed growls, and Mustang must really want it, because he doesn't bitch. He lines himself up and pushes the slick head of his cock inside. The intrusion is enormous. Mustang feels impossible inside him, as if Ed will never be able to fit him in, as if his cock will never stop pushing up into him, inch after inch.
And then Ed's taken it all, Mustang is fully inside him and he floats on the feeling of being outside himself and yet so very, very present . His ass burns, and his face and nipples and strap marks feel tender, and the bite on his shoulder aches, and all his mad tension drains away.
He floats, head pillowed on his arms, as he's fucked hard. It hurts; rough, brutal fucking with not quite enough lube, his ass tight around the hardness of Mustang's cock, Mustang's hands clamped on his hips. It feels fantastic, and he never wants to it end. His own cock bounces between his legs, hard and leaking but almost unimportant compared to the way it feels for Mustang to use him like this.
"Edward," Mustang breathes, like he's talking to himself, looking down at Ed's marked up back, the bite on his shoulder. He's kept one of the goddamn gloves on, and he runs it over the welts. He digs in, sandpaper on painful, swollen flesh, pounds Ed's ass, and Ed comes, sudden and like a freight train.
The feeling of being fucked even harder, used for Mustang's pleasure after he's already come—that's maybe even better than being beaten. And when Mustang comes, pulsing deep in his ass, they both cry out.
After, they lie together, because fuck if Ed's moving out of this bed before at least lunchtime tomorrow.
"I could wish you got into less fights," Mustang says, tracing last week's almost-healed cut with his spark cloth roughened fingertip. Ed shivers.
"I don't start them," he says, and there goes Mustang's eyebrow again. "I fucking don't! If I'm just minding my own business and some assholes try mugging me, it'd be fucking irresponsible not to do the citizen's arrest thing, wouldn't it."
"Hmm," says Mustang, in that way where he injects whole pages of meaning into something that isn't even a word. Ed doesn't know how the fuck he does it. "If it's just that you're looking for ways to burn off energy, you could just come to me, you know. Before you throw yourself at Central's entire criminal population fist-first, I mean. Surely you agree I can give you what you need by now?"
"I'll think about it," Ed says, and he means it. His ass is sore, and his shoulder aches, and it's pretty much fucking perfect.