murder of crows

Too Sweet

Edward wasn't sure if Winry knew just how damn provocative she was when she licked the spatula clean. There was just something about her tongue and the obvious relish she took in it; something he wanted to become intimately familiar with, right then, as it curled around the rubbery tip and caught warm caramel from top to bottom, swallowing it down with a smile.

It was the spring fest in Rizenbuul; the first he was back for in five years; really, it was longer, but he didn't want to think about all time he had spent on the road, missing the way the mechanic cooked. He felt out of place, certainly, but going through the steps of the remembered rituals of preparing for candied apples and—was she going to do it again?

Yes, the other side now.

He would have killed, before a nonexistent God and Winry, to be that goddamn spatula.


Oh god, she was talking. He blinked away from positively indecent thoughts, and then shook his head. "Huh?"

"You're—just not all here, are you? You didn't hear what I just said, did you?"

Had she spoken? He thought for sure her tongue had been otherwise occupied. Or maybe he was just delusional.

"No," he finally recovered. "I didn't. I'm sorry, I've had a lot on my mind." Like wondering if you could do that to something that isn't a spatula.

She laid down the spatula and then approached him; grateful for the table that hid his obvious, masculine reaction to fantasizing about his mechanic and spatula fellatio, he looked up at her; she shifted, sitting on the edge of the table, and looked down at him.

"Is there anything you want to talk about?"

"No," he lied evenly. "I'm just..." He shrugged once. "I'm just getting used to things again."

Her blue eyes were bright, and she reached out to smooth his hair away from his face. It took every ounce of strength he had not to turn into that touch and purr like one of Al's strays.

"I just want you to know," she says, carding her fingers through his hair, "that you can talk to me whenever you want, about whatever you want. I want you to—to be secure at home again, Edward."

He nodded; he understood her kindness and her love, but there were so many things keeping him from bridging that distance, finding out what burnt-sugar candy kisses would taste like. He could only smile, then, and nod.

"I'll—I will be sure to tell you, Winry. I promise."

She clucked her tongue, and then ruffled his hair, before she slipped away from the table.

"If you're lucky, I'll let you have an apple before the faire," she said, and then went back to cleaning the rest of her utensils, though none of it involving licking, mouthing, or anything else that gave Ed the distinct need for a cold shower.

This was going to be a long faire, he idly realized, and quietly hoped that he'd be able to walk straight when it came time to haul all that over to the booths at the faire.