By : Hmmingbird
Disclaimer : I don't own FMA.
A/N : I'm just testing the waters of FMA fanfiction before I start churning out larger pieces. Let me know if you like.
He is tapping his pencil again.
She can feel the tension in the room, taut like the ridged line of his spine. They both knew what they were committing to when they remained cloistered in the dimly lit office after hours. Ostensibly, he needs to finish the paperwork that he purposefully neglected, and she needs to supervise him, but that's just the pretty line they feed the others, and themselves. They don't speak about it to each other, so there is always the paradoxical hope and fear that perhaps they will do just what they claim to be doing. Paperwork.
She absently watches the rain collecting on the windows behind him as he scribbles sloppy 'X's' over the top sheet of papers in front of him. This is the part of their dance they've mastered. They can bend over backwards to avoid the pink elephant sitting in the quiet space between them. There are a thousand reasons why they should not do this again, but it's too late to untangle now.
He is just beginning to wonder if she has sensibly changed her mind about the wisdom and morality of their frequent 'accidents' when her chair scrapes against the floor. He looks up to scan her wolfishly as she crosses the room.
"Do you need some help with your paperwork, Sir?" She drums her fingernails on the only uncovered edge of his desk and looks at him with an impish humor nestled in the corners of her mouth.
She knows he can no longer pretend he doesn't want her. He likes the effect this knowledge has on her, so he gives her his weakness to chew on. It allows her confidence enough to approach him, and it makes her alabaster skin flush carmine when he leers at her, which he always does. He wants her hair and fingertips and wet, pink mouth, violently. It's better if she comes prepared to handle the onslaught.
He has her chin in his hands, quick, before she can rethink her decision. No time to walk around the desk between them. No time to even aim for her lips. He crushes the papers under him, and she knocks over a jar of pens that clangs to the floor, but the damage to his desktop will have to wait. She is trembling in his arms, and not because she is afraid. His lips trace a hungry course from her chin to her mouth, and her nails bite into his back.
Teeth against teeth. Tantalizing pain.
He is panting when he releases her, and her peppermint breath on his face isn't calming his nerves. He likes to pretend that he is content to kiss her like this, and he wants nothing more of her body. She likes to pretend to believe him. It's all part of a torturous game they play. They both know what they don't want to know, but the truth is only a distant pinprick of mandatory caution, and he likes to play with fire.
"This is the last time. I promise," He whispers, before crushing her mouth to his again.
He said the same thing yesterday, and the day before that, but for some reason they keeping bumping together like moths in the dark.
He has just kissed a lie right into her mouth, but she doesn't mind because it tastes good. Pretending makes what they've done easier to swallow. Chocolate coated sin. It's only forbidden if they are caught, and they won't be caught because this is the last time he will succumb to temptation. And this is the last time she won't resist him.
Lying. Lying. Lying. She is lying beneath him, scattering even more papers, and he is lying to himself about the brevity of this affair. Lying has become synonymous with pleasure, and that's not a good thing, or so he's been told. Now he understands why people consistently develop addictions despite all the warnings.
The salty pulse at her throat is like butterflies' wings, fluttering. He is only kissing her, and kissing never hurt anyone. He dismisses guilt and trepidation between breaths for air.
They've uncorked something wild, but it's perfectly harmless.