FMA -- Doing Romance
Title: Doing Romance
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,400
Warnings: language, much discussion of The Sex
Summary: In which Ed struggles mightily with the revered traditions of classical courtship.
Author's Note: Speeeeeeeedfiiiiiiiic for Pax! ♥
fantastic art by Pax, originally posted here
DOING ROMANCE
Ed pauses. He glances sideways at Roy, surreptitiously, through his hair. Roy is just watching him, with hot, half-lidded eyes, because Roy is a bastard piece of shit and also a cheater.
Ed turns the page. His cheeks are burning so bad it’s a wonder the book hasn’t caught fire.
“He… ey,” he says.
Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Nothing ever sounds right. How do you even talk to someone who’s seen you naked? What can you say to someone who’s licked the sweat off your throat? What sorts of twisty, windy, wiles-y kind of words are you supposed to use?
Ed’s skimmed a couple of Al’s stupid books-because, y’know, books-and grimaced through a few of the radio plays that Al curls up next to the speaker and rattles with delight for. Lovers are supposed to talk all clever. That’s supposed to be part of the excitement-part of the game. You’re supposed to play hard to get, and you’re supposed to be sassy and sultry at turns, and you’re supposed to generate so much banter that nobody can tell how you really feel-which somehow is the thing that indicates that you really want to jump into bed with somebody. Ed can’t figure that part out; if he said “You’re a cad and a reprobate” (he can tell tonally that reprobation is not a positive trait and/or activity), “and I shan’t be yours now or ever”… Well, he wouldn’t, because holy shit, who talks like that?, but if he did, he’d fucking mean it. He wouldn’t say shit like that and then turn around and fall into someone’s arms; that’s basically lying, right? Except that Al always makes this little gleeful noise like the fun’s just getting started.
“Yes?” Roy says calmly.
That’s the other thing-yeah, Roy almost had an aneurysm finding out how flexible Ed is against a mattress, but if Ed can’t talk the talk to save his fucking life, how long is Central’s favorite fuckbuddy going to give a crap?
There’s no running from it: Ed completely fails at romance. He is tone-deaf to love songs. When he takes a good, long look at Roy, and his heart starts banging, it doesn’t inspire him to heights of wit and eloquence; it ties his tongue into double-knots, and the fire in the pit of his stomach sends torrents of smoke up to choke the words out of his throat. There’s no template for that. Is it wrong? Maybe the feeling doesn’t mean anything if he can’t think of anything to say about it, but that can’t be right-
“What’s the matter?” Roy asks.
“Nothing,” Ed says, looking very intently at the word the. It’s important, is the. Important article. Pretty useful to the language. To the language.
Roy shifts closer. The couch creaks softly as his weight moves; the cushion bows towards him so that Ed starts to tilt in towards his shoulder.
See, that’s how it’s supposed to go. All this… double-entendre… implication… shit. You never actually say anything-or if you’re really good, you say the exact opposite of what you mean-and somehow the other person figures out that you’re Doing Romance, so they should just ignore what you’re saying and Do Romance back.
Ed thinks ignoring people is rude.
Why do people do this shit? Well, other than the fact that sex is awesome, which sort of makes it worth it, and… yeah, that’s probably why.
“Really,” Roy says. “What’s wrong? You’ve been skittish all night.”
“I have not,” Ed says. He’s moved on to the word proportionate, which is not quite as versatile as the, but still pretty helpful to know.
“Edward,” Roy says in that low, too low, soft, patient, rumbly voice he has that pierces straight to the base of Ed’s spine and sends a spear of heat right through him. Roy’s nearest hand settles lightly on his thigh. Fuck, the man has nice hands. His fingers are kind of long, but they’re sturdy enough to feel powerful-and they can be so gentle, but they can grip like vises, and when he digs them in you feel trapped and wanted at the same time, and giving in to that is like-
Ed drags his eyes away from the back of Roy’s hand and fixes them on the page of the book again. This time he lands on the word nimbus.
Good word, nimbus.
Fuck nimbus; he really wants Roy’s fingers curling into the meat of his ass, twisting themselves into his hair, pinning his wrists to the bed so he can arch and writhe and scream all he wants, but he’ll stay locked in to the overwhelming heat and press and pleasure-
And what the hell does banter have to do with this?
“I think,” he says.
Roy is very quiet; how can a person’s gaze be heavy? It’s not a tangible thing; it doesn’t have mass; it can’t possibly have weight.
“That,” Ed goes on. “Maybe. I should. Read. Upstairs.”
“In the library?” Roy asks, the pinnacle of innocence-the motherfucker. He must know; he must get it; he’s a grandmaster at this game, and he’s also a giant douche.
“I was thinking,” Ed says, biting the words out around the very distracting ways his whole body is going haywire as Roy’s palm warms his leg, “in… bed… actually. It’s… comfortable. Not that the library’s not comfortable. But it’s. Cozier. Y’know.”
“Are you sure you want to be cozy?” Roy asks.
Ed looks at him like he’s an imbecile. Scratch that, he is an imbecile; Ed’s just looking at him and acknowledging the facts.
“You look like you’re enjoying that book very much,” Roy says, leaning in to peer at it over Ed’s shoulder, which puts his purring voice and damp mouth extremely close to Ed’s ear. “You’ve been looking at that particular page for two full minutes; it must be fascinating. Surely if you got too cozy, you’d risk falling asleep.”
Ed is starting to sweat now. What if Roy’s so used to him being an awkward, incompetent little nerd (no, no, no; an awkward, incompetent, perfectly normal-sized nerd) that he actually doesn’t realize that Ed’s trying really hard to play the stupid game and just happens to suck at it?
This whole relationship thing is such a crock of shit. People should just be able to say “I like you; let’s fuck” and be done with it.
Goddamnitalltohellfuck.
“You should come with me,” Ed says. “To the bed, I mean. To make sure I don’t fall asleep. I mean, I probably wouldn’t, but… just to make sure. Y’know.”
Ed has been told by twelve different people on twelve individual occasions that he’s the least subtle human being they’ve ever met. Surely that has to count for something.
“Are you sure?” Roy asks. His mouth brushes the shell of Ed’s ear; he breathes out, and Ed’s shoulders go tight. “I would hate to get in the way of such a delicious foray into literatu-”
The core of Ed’s body is taut like a bowstring, and the low tones of Roy’s voice resonating against his very skin finally make him fucking snap.
He’s got a fistful of Roy’s collar in the metal hand and a mouthful of Roy’s bottom lip before he’s really had time to blink. He bites down, not exactly softly, and then pushes Roy away just far enough to glare into his gleaming eyes.
“Fucking fuck me,” he says. “For fuck’s sake.”
Roy’s grin is positively evil. No one in their right mind will ever allow this man to lead any country, let alone their own. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”
“I’m going to fucking eviscerate you,” Ed says. “With my bare hands.”
Roy takes the left one and tugs him upright off the couch. “Not until after I’ve fucked you, I hope.”
“Depends how good you make it,” Ed says.
Roy’s got a laugh that’s just for him-or, at least, he thinks so; he’s never heard it when they’re with other people. It’s kind of deep and very rich and just sort of happy, and it zings through Ed’s bloodstream every time.
“Do you have the slightest idea how charming you are?” Roy asks.
“Who’s slight?” Ed snarls back.
The just-for-him laugh carries them all the way up the stairs.
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,400
Warnings: language, much discussion of The Sex
Summary: In which Ed struggles mightily with the revered traditions of classical courtship.
Author's Note: Speeeeeeeedfiiiiiiiic for Pax! ♥
fantastic art by Pax, originally posted here
DOING ROMANCE
Ed pauses. He glances sideways at Roy, surreptitiously, through his hair. Roy is just watching him, with hot, half-lidded eyes, because Roy is a bastard piece of shit and also a cheater.
Ed turns the page. His cheeks are burning so bad it’s a wonder the book hasn’t caught fire.
“He… ey,” he says.
Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Nothing ever sounds right. How do you even talk to someone who’s seen you naked? What can you say to someone who’s licked the sweat off your throat? What sorts of twisty, windy, wiles-y kind of words are you supposed to use?
Ed’s skimmed a couple of Al’s stupid books-because, y’know, books-and grimaced through a few of the radio plays that Al curls up next to the speaker and rattles with delight for. Lovers are supposed to talk all clever. That’s supposed to be part of the excitement-part of the game. You’re supposed to play hard to get, and you’re supposed to be sassy and sultry at turns, and you’re supposed to generate so much banter that nobody can tell how you really feel-which somehow is the thing that indicates that you really want to jump into bed with somebody. Ed can’t figure that part out; if he said “You’re a cad and a reprobate” (he can tell tonally that reprobation is not a positive trait and/or activity), “and I shan’t be yours now or ever”… Well, he wouldn’t, because holy shit, who talks like that?, but if he did, he’d fucking mean it. He wouldn’t say shit like that and then turn around and fall into someone’s arms; that’s basically lying, right? Except that Al always makes this little gleeful noise like the fun’s just getting started.
“Yes?” Roy says calmly.
That’s the other thing-yeah, Roy almost had an aneurysm finding out how flexible Ed is against a mattress, but if Ed can’t talk the talk to save his fucking life, how long is Central’s favorite fuckbuddy going to give a crap?
There’s no running from it: Ed completely fails at romance. He is tone-deaf to love songs. When he takes a good, long look at Roy, and his heart starts banging, it doesn’t inspire him to heights of wit and eloquence; it ties his tongue into double-knots, and the fire in the pit of his stomach sends torrents of smoke up to choke the words out of his throat. There’s no template for that. Is it wrong? Maybe the feeling doesn’t mean anything if he can’t think of anything to say about it, but that can’t be right-
“What’s the matter?” Roy asks.
“Nothing,” Ed says, looking very intently at the word the. It’s important, is the. Important article. Pretty useful to the language. To the language.
Roy shifts closer. The couch creaks softly as his weight moves; the cushion bows towards him so that Ed starts to tilt in towards his shoulder.
See, that’s how it’s supposed to go. All this… double-entendre… implication… shit. You never actually say anything-or if you’re really good, you say the exact opposite of what you mean-and somehow the other person figures out that you’re Doing Romance, so they should just ignore what you’re saying and Do Romance back.
Ed thinks ignoring people is rude.
Why do people do this shit? Well, other than the fact that sex is awesome, which sort of makes it worth it, and… yeah, that’s probably why.
“Really,” Roy says. “What’s wrong? You’ve been skittish all night.”
“I have not,” Ed says. He’s moved on to the word proportionate, which is not quite as versatile as the, but still pretty helpful to know.
“Edward,” Roy says in that low, too low, soft, patient, rumbly voice he has that pierces straight to the base of Ed’s spine and sends a spear of heat right through him. Roy’s nearest hand settles lightly on his thigh. Fuck, the man has nice hands. His fingers are kind of long, but they’re sturdy enough to feel powerful-and they can be so gentle, but they can grip like vises, and when he digs them in you feel trapped and wanted at the same time, and giving in to that is like-
Ed drags his eyes away from the back of Roy’s hand and fixes them on the page of the book again. This time he lands on the word nimbus.
Good word, nimbus.
Fuck nimbus; he really wants Roy’s fingers curling into the meat of his ass, twisting themselves into his hair, pinning his wrists to the bed so he can arch and writhe and scream all he wants, but he’ll stay locked in to the overwhelming heat and press and pleasure-
And what the hell does banter have to do with this?
“I think,” he says.
Roy is very quiet; how can a person’s gaze be heavy? It’s not a tangible thing; it doesn’t have mass; it can’t possibly have weight.
“That,” Ed goes on. “Maybe. I should. Read. Upstairs.”
“In the library?” Roy asks, the pinnacle of innocence-the motherfucker. He must know; he must get it; he’s a grandmaster at this game, and he’s also a giant douche.
“I was thinking,” Ed says, biting the words out around the very distracting ways his whole body is going haywire as Roy’s palm warms his leg, “in… bed… actually. It’s… comfortable. Not that the library’s not comfortable. But it’s. Cozier. Y’know.”
“Are you sure you want to be cozy?” Roy asks.
Ed looks at him like he’s an imbecile. Scratch that, he is an imbecile; Ed’s just looking at him and acknowledging the facts.
“You look like you’re enjoying that book very much,” Roy says, leaning in to peer at it over Ed’s shoulder, which puts his purring voice and damp mouth extremely close to Ed’s ear. “You’ve been looking at that particular page for two full minutes; it must be fascinating. Surely if you got too cozy, you’d risk falling asleep.”
Ed is starting to sweat now. What if Roy’s so used to him being an awkward, incompetent little nerd (no, no, no; an awkward, incompetent, perfectly normal-sized nerd) that he actually doesn’t realize that Ed’s trying really hard to play the stupid game and just happens to suck at it?
This whole relationship thing is such a crock of shit. People should just be able to say “I like you; let’s fuck” and be done with it.
Goddamnitalltohellfuck.
“You should come with me,” Ed says. “To the bed, I mean. To make sure I don’t fall asleep. I mean, I probably wouldn’t, but… just to make sure. Y’know.”
Ed has been told by twelve different people on twelve individual occasions that he’s the least subtle human being they’ve ever met. Surely that has to count for something.
“Are you sure?” Roy asks. His mouth brushes the shell of Ed’s ear; he breathes out, and Ed’s shoulders go tight. “I would hate to get in the way of such a delicious foray into literatu-”
The core of Ed’s body is taut like a bowstring, and the low tones of Roy’s voice resonating against his very skin finally make him fucking snap.
He’s got a fistful of Roy’s collar in the metal hand and a mouthful of Roy’s bottom lip before he’s really had time to blink. He bites down, not exactly softly, and then pushes Roy away just far enough to glare into his gleaming eyes.
“Fucking fuck me,” he says. “For fuck’s sake.”
Roy’s grin is positively evil. No one in their right mind will ever allow this man to lead any country, let alone their own. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”
“I’m going to fucking eviscerate you,” Ed says. “With my bare hands.”
Roy takes the left one and tugs him upright off the couch. “Not until after I’ve fucked you, I hope.”
“Depends how good you make it,” Ed says.
Roy’s got a laugh that’s just for him-or, at least, he thinks so; he’s never heard it when they’re with other people. It’s kind of deep and very rich and just sort of happy, and it zings through Ed’s bloodstream every time.
“Do you have the slightest idea how charming you are?” Roy asks.
“Who’s slight?” Ed snarls back.
The just-for-him laugh carries them all the way up the stairs.