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Practicals


It was odd, having Alphonse Elric as your alter ego, Alfons reflected, his mind drifting slightly as the younger man's voice droned over him. In some ways, they were so very, very alike—their minds tended to go down the same roads, to such lengths that they could start up in the middle of a conversation as though they'd been speaking aloud all along.

Just this afternoon, for instance, they'd both been in the kitchen, lingering idly over the remains of lunch and dishes, watching Ed polish off another stack of Alfons' home-made German sausages, and the shared thoughts had been so heavy in the air you could bludgeon someone to death with it.

"And after all that," Al had said, making the unexpected leap from implicit to explicit, "he still can't give a decent blowjob."

It certainly didn't make Ed any less satisfactory of a lover, Alfons thought, coming back to the present for a moment to the sounds and scents of Edward moaning, writhing underneath him. He had to pay attention, he scolded himself; the whole point of this exercise was that he and Al were supposed to be co-ordinating.

But giving a long, slow, satisfying blow-job was tedious at the best times, and even more so since he wasn't allowed to finish it already. His jaw was beginning to ache and twinge already, his eyes watering, and Al wasn't half done.

Alfons consoled himself with the thought that Edward, whose panting breaths were growing increasingly loud and desperate, was obviously a lot less happy with the situation than he was.

Because that was the really odd part about being Alphonse Elric's alter; odder than the existence of him at all, odder than the way they synchronized, odder even than the bizarre ease with which they had slipped into a homosexual, semi-incestuous three-way relationship with Al's brother; and Alfons still didn't understand quite how that had happened.

But no, strangest of all was the differences between them, especially the way Alphonse would just take the most unbelievable of ideas straight from the sphere of idle speculation into practice without even a blink.

"Maybe we should give him lessons," Alfons had said, half-heartedly, eyes still on Edward. The way the round, richly dark, gleaming tubes slipped in between Edward's lips was enough to make any little soldier stand up and take notice; but the snap of Edward's teeth as he chomped off another bite was definitely enough to make him hunker down in the trenches.

Alphonse considered this seriously. "Maybe we should," he said. "You practically wrote the book on good oral sex, and by this point, even I know how to give a decent blow job. There's no excuse for Niisan to be so hopeless."

"Eh?" Alfons tore his gaze away and focused on his doppelganger with difficulty. "I hardly wrote the book on—you aren't seriously suggesting we sit Edward down and try to explain the mechanics of oral sex to him? This is Edward. He still dresses in the bathroom, for God's sake, unless one of us goes in there with him. He won't stay for more than thirty seconds."

"That's true," Alphonse said. "We'll have to tie him down so he can't run off."

Alfons would have objected more strongly to the ridiculousness of this argument, except that the image of Edward with his hands tied to the couch—or the chair, the wooden one with the wide arms and the arching trellised back—overrode his better judgment.

"Er..." he said. "Okay, but even if we can make him sit still, will he really listen?" Distracted, he found his eyes wandering back into the breakfast nook, where Edward, happily oblivious to their quiet conversation, was wolfing down a buttered roll. Flecks of white were clinging to the side of his mouth, and Alfons found his gaze riveted and his common sense weakening.

Al frowned, tapping his lips with one finger, then running his fingertip between his lips in an apparently unconsciously motivated gesture. "Well, I'm not sure. Niisan is a very physical learner, you know. Just talking and showing won't help much. He needs to try things before he can get them right."

A loud crunch split the air; gold and blue eyes both turned to fix on Edward, sharp canines flashing as he munches his way through their last carrot. They looked back at each other.

"Absolutely not," Alfons said.

"Me either," Al agreed. "But I still don't think just explaining to him will be enough. I have a better idea..."

And that was how they came to this, Alfons mused; on his knees (on a pillow; he'd insisted) in front of the chair after all, leaning his weight on his elbows to keep Edward's knees spread, and Edward's cock down his throat. And perched on the chair arm, Alphonse delivered a detailed, explicit, and long lecture on the proper way to give a blowjob.

Ed's hands were tied, after all, to the wooden lattice behind his head; Alfons was much happier not to have real and artificial hands grabbing and pulling at his hair. And just to make sure Edward was listening, Al would frequently pause in his recitation, and insist that Edward repeat back what he had said.

"So why does it feel better closer to the head, Niisan?" Al was saying now; Alfons paused, slowed, and pulled back to give himself some air, and Edward some incentive to answer. Not that he needed any more; Edward whined, low in his throat, and arched his hips to try and push forward, but Alfons had the leverage and he had the patience and he damn sure wasn't going to let Edward fuck his mouth as he pleased. "Come on, I just told you this."

"Because," Edward gasped, his chest rapidly rising and falling, sending the tails of his shirt fluttering. "Because—because—oh fuck, fuck, please, Alfons, I need to come—"

"Niisan!" Al scolded, and Alfons obligingly backed off a little more. Edward nearly wailed. "Come on, pay attention!"

Ed dropped his head back against his hands, clenched in the railings of the chair; his eyes rolled back, exposing the whites. "Because—because eighty percent of the nerves i-in the cock are in or near the head, meaning that ar—that area is especially sensitive to the—to the—especially to the tongue—"

"That's right," Al beamed, and nodded at Alfons; he leaned his weight forward, and obediently repeated the maneuver, swirling his tongue slowly around the head of Ed's cock.

The blond man's legs convulsed, socked heels scrabbling on the floor, and he slammed his head back "Come—Al—Alfons—you're killing me, oh please just let me..."

"We're not done yet," Al said, mildly reproving. "Okay, keeping that in mind, Ed, what's the next logical step?"

Ed moaned, and his arms clenched and surged as he suddenly bucked wildly, trying to break the ropes and escape; but by either chance or design, Al had tied his hands behind him at such an angle that he couldn't bring his strength to bear; for the sake of his poor throat lining, Alfons approved. "Oh, FUCK YOU BOTH!" Edward cried, giving up on the effort as futile.

"Well, normally," Al said. "But we're concentrating on blowjobs right now, Niisan. Now..."

Alfons lifted his head, clearing his throat as Edward's cock slipped out of it. "Actually, I'm game," he said breathlessly. There was a certain sensual satisfaction to be had in giving a really good blowjob, licking and sucking your partner to heights of ecstasy and watching him squirm, but enough was enough. "Al, find me the cooking oil."

"Yes!" Edward endorsed this change of plans heartily, arching his back away from the hard wooden chair.

"But—" Al protested, then gave up with a sigh as Alfons leaned back, scrabbling at the catches of his pants. He knew when he was outnumbered. "Oh, fine. But don't think this means you're getting out of your homework," he called back, as he went to fetch the oil.