Fic - "No Pain, No Gain"
Title: No Pain, No Gain
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Roy Mustang, Maes Hughes. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Word Count: 1000
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "There are some cadets here who would benefit from the loss of a few pounds."
Warnings: Slash, saucy business. Or should I say SAUCY FITNESS??
Notes: Written for the prompt "loss" at fma_fic_contest. It's an Academy fic, yay! I've had this fic in my brain ever since I began my own quest to get into good shape. If this were my actual fitness routine, I'd have a six-pack by now.
Roy scours the dorm room for something suitable to hook his feet under. The bed is too high and the desk is too low. He could go to the gymnasium like the rest of his peers, but he despises exercising in public. It feels oddly exhibitionistic, and at the moment, he doesn’t have anything worth exhibiting.
The instructor’s voice echoes in his memory, sharp and mocking.
“There are some cadets here who would benefit from the loss of a few pounds.”
His stare pinned Roy, lingering on his stomach, while Mustang fought the urge to grab the hem of his t-shirt and tug downwards.
There’s a reason the girls at the brothel still call Roy their little cherub. Somehow, he has failed to outgrow an unmistakable layer of baby fat. It leaves his face slightly rounded, but worse, it gives his stomach a light padding of fluff. He’s not fat. He’s just not--- toned. It hasn’t been a problem until that one instructor started giving him the stink-eye. Stink-eye now, insults later, and it will graduate to full on heckling and humiliation unless Roy takes action immediately.
Catching sight of himself in the mirror over the sink, Roy rucks his shirt up under his arms, examining his soft stomach with a critical eye.
Suddenly Maes is facing him, mimicking his pose so that they’re belly to belly.
“Want to compare?”
Mustang yanks his shirt down in a huff. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Trying to be sympathetic, Hughes pooches out his gut in a heroic attempt to look fat. Unfortunately, Maes is already so scrawny that even when he’s trying to overdo it, he’s just about equal with Roy.
“You’re not helping,” Mustang mutters gloomily.
“So how can I help?”
The solution is surprisingly simple--- Maes gets to help and Roy gets something to hook his feet under. Mustang ends up on his back on the floor, Hughes with his knees resting on Roy’s feet, hands braced against his ankles. As Maes begins to count, Mustang begins to do sit-ups.
“One, two, three…”
It starts out easy. Roy is full of energy and Hughes’s voice is a steady metronome that brings him back and forth, up and down in a fierce rhythm. Gradually, their breathing starts to synchronize. Roy is the one working but Maes is right there with him, as though his own success depends on the success of his roommate. It’s encouraging in a way that Mustang has never known before. He focuses on his breathing and on Maes and tries to ignore the faint sting developing in his core.
“Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight…”
Mustang had been worried that this might be awkward, this strangely intimate pose, their bodies intertwined on the floor. Over the past few weeks their friendship has been teetering on the brink, their usual banter graduating into flirtation and their physical interaction going from accidental to intentional, handshakes turning into hugs. There had been some nervous chuckling as they found their way into this position, but now, everything is strictly professional--- he tells himself.
“Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one…”
They’re both really working for it now. Roy feels sweat pouring down his back, sees the matching shine on Hughes’s forehead, takes comfort from the determination in his roommate’s voice. It’s almost--- distracting, to be moving like this beneath him, to rise and fall at his command, his body straining to answer his call. Maes’s hands move slowly but surely up his legs, up the shins until they rest on his knees, squeezing on every count. He’s leaning into it every time Roy gets close to him. If he pushes forward too far, they’ll collide.
“Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty…”
Something gives way and Roy flops onto his back, boneless, his muscles screaming. His heartbeat throbs in his skull. It takes all of his strength to draw breath after hot, cottony breath.
“Come on!” Hughes growls, digging in his nails.
“I can’t, I can’t…” Roy wheezes. “It burns….”
“Sixty-one! Come on, Roy, give me sixty-one!”
Somehow, somewhere, Mustang finds the strength. Somehow, he forces himself up again. And again. He makes it to seventy-three before he collapses, completely spent.
“Please…” he groans. “I can’t.”
And that’s when Hughes’s long, clever hands slip down onto his thighs.
“Make it to a hundred,” Maes grins, breathing hard. “And I’ll suck your dick.”
Speechless, Roy takes a moment to just stare at him. His hands have been resting protectively over his strained, suffering belly, but now they find their way to the other’s, thumbs stroking thumbs, fingertips massaging knuckles.
“Is that a bribe?” he pants.
“No,” Hughes licks his lips. “It’s a bet.”
Roy drops his hands back behind his head and drags his aching body up into a sitting position.
“That’s seventy-four, smart-ass,” he smirks.
“Twenty-six to go,” Maes darts forward and kisses his forehead. “Don’t let me down.”
Like a racehorse faltering on the final lap, Mustang looks inward. What he finds surprises him. Now he has a challenge, a bet that he will not lose. That gives him the willpower to push harder.
“Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one….”
Roy opens his legs and wraps them around Hughes’s slender waist, driving himself up against him, his feet braced and digging into the other’s back. Maes reaches behind him and grabs a bedpost, thrusting his hips forward and arching his back for counterbalance. The burn is incredible. Roy has never felt such pain, such agony, such a battle between a mind that demands everything and a body that is not yet strong enough to comply.
“Ninety-eight, ninety-nine….”
And on the last one, Hughes catches him and drags him up into an embrace, their sweaty, heaving bodies pressed together, their gaping, gasping mouths wheezing over each other’s shoulders. Roy goes limp, head dropped back, weight fully supported by Maes’s arms.
“Outstanding, cadet,” Hughes laughs weakly.
They breathlessly agree to take a rain check on the reward. Roy needs to recover his strength.
And now Hughes wants to get in shape, too.
______end.
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Roy Mustang, Maes Hughes. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Word Count: 1000
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "There are some cadets here who would benefit from the loss of a few pounds."
Warnings: Slash, saucy business. Or should I say SAUCY FITNESS??
Notes: Written for the prompt "loss" at fma_fic_contest. It's an Academy fic, yay! I've had this fic in my brain ever since I began my own quest to get into good shape. If this were my actual fitness routine, I'd have a six-pack by now.
Roy scours the dorm room for something suitable to hook his feet under. The bed is too high and the desk is too low. He could go to the gymnasium like the rest of his peers, but he despises exercising in public. It feels oddly exhibitionistic, and at the moment, he doesn’t have anything worth exhibiting.
The instructor’s voice echoes in his memory, sharp and mocking.
“There are some cadets here who would benefit from the loss of a few pounds.”
His stare pinned Roy, lingering on his stomach, while Mustang fought the urge to grab the hem of his t-shirt and tug downwards.
There’s a reason the girls at the brothel still call Roy their little cherub. Somehow, he has failed to outgrow an unmistakable layer of baby fat. It leaves his face slightly rounded, but worse, it gives his stomach a light padding of fluff. He’s not fat. He’s just not--- toned. It hasn’t been a problem until that one instructor started giving him the stink-eye. Stink-eye now, insults later, and it will graduate to full on heckling and humiliation unless Roy takes action immediately.
Catching sight of himself in the mirror over the sink, Roy rucks his shirt up under his arms, examining his soft stomach with a critical eye.
Suddenly Maes is facing him, mimicking his pose so that they’re belly to belly.
“Want to compare?”
Mustang yanks his shirt down in a huff. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Trying to be sympathetic, Hughes pooches out his gut in a heroic attempt to look fat. Unfortunately, Maes is already so scrawny that even when he’s trying to overdo it, he’s just about equal with Roy.
“You’re not helping,” Mustang mutters gloomily.
“So how can I help?”
The solution is surprisingly simple--- Maes gets to help and Roy gets something to hook his feet under. Mustang ends up on his back on the floor, Hughes with his knees resting on Roy’s feet, hands braced against his ankles. As Maes begins to count, Mustang begins to do sit-ups.
“One, two, three…”
It starts out easy. Roy is full of energy and Hughes’s voice is a steady metronome that brings him back and forth, up and down in a fierce rhythm. Gradually, their breathing starts to synchronize. Roy is the one working but Maes is right there with him, as though his own success depends on the success of his roommate. It’s encouraging in a way that Mustang has never known before. He focuses on his breathing and on Maes and tries to ignore the faint sting developing in his core.
“Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight…”
Mustang had been worried that this might be awkward, this strangely intimate pose, their bodies intertwined on the floor. Over the past few weeks their friendship has been teetering on the brink, their usual banter graduating into flirtation and their physical interaction going from accidental to intentional, handshakes turning into hugs. There had been some nervous chuckling as they found their way into this position, but now, everything is strictly professional--- he tells himself.
“Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one…”
They’re both really working for it now. Roy feels sweat pouring down his back, sees the matching shine on Hughes’s forehead, takes comfort from the determination in his roommate’s voice. It’s almost--- distracting, to be moving like this beneath him, to rise and fall at his command, his body straining to answer his call. Maes’s hands move slowly but surely up his legs, up the shins until they rest on his knees, squeezing on every count. He’s leaning into it every time Roy gets close to him. If he pushes forward too far, they’ll collide.
“Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty…”
Something gives way and Roy flops onto his back, boneless, his muscles screaming. His heartbeat throbs in his skull. It takes all of his strength to draw breath after hot, cottony breath.
“Come on!” Hughes growls, digging in his nails.
“I can’t, I can’t…” Roy wheezes. “It burns….”
“Sixty-one! Come on, Roy, give me sixty-one!”
Somehow, somewhere, Mustang finds the strength. Somehow, he forces himself up again. And again. He makes it to seventy-three before he collapses, completely spent.
“Please…” he groans. “I can’t.”
And that’s when Hughes’s long, clever hands slip down onto his thighs.
“Make it to a hundred,” Maes grins, breathing hard. “And I’ll suck your dick.”
Speechless, Roy takes a moment to just stare at him. His hands have been resting protectively over his strained, suffering belly, but now they find their way to the other’s, thumbs stroking thumbs, fingertips massaging knuckles.
“Is that a bribe?” he pants.
“No,” Hughes licks his lips. “It’s a bet.”
Roy drops his hands back behind his head and drags his aching body up into a sitting position.
“That’s seventy-four, smart-ass,” he smirks.
“Twenty-six to go,” Maes darts forward and kisses his forehead. “Don’t let me down.”
Like a racehorse faltering on the final lap, Mustang looks inward. What he finds surprises him. Now he has a challenge, a bet that he will not lose. That gives him the willpower to push harder.
“Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one….”
Roy opens his legs and wraps them around Hughes’s slender waist, driving himself up against him, his feet braced and digging into the other’s back. Maes reaches behind him and grabs a bedpost, thrusting his hips forward and arching his back for counterbalance. The burn is incredible. Roy has never felt such pain, such agony, such a battle between a mind that demands everything and a body that is not yet strong enough to comply.
“Ninety-eight, ninety-nine….”
And on the last one, Hughes catches him and drags him up into an embrace, their sweaty, heaving bodies pressed together, their gaping, gasping mouths wheezing over each other’s shoulders. Roy goes limp, head dropped back, weight fully supported by Maes’s arms.
“Outstanding, cadet,” Hughes laughs weakly.
They breathlessly agree to take a rain check on the reward. Roy needs to recover his strength.
And now Hughes wants to get in shape, too.
______end.