Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist and I make no money from writing these stories.
Summary: Riza just can't stop thinking about it... A follow-up to the short fic, "Fake."
Warnings: …um, suggestive situations; the rest is up to your imaginations…
Genre: Fullmetal Alchemist; AU, I guess…
A/N: Thanks to spring_kink's Valentine's Day Kink Meme without which, yaoi girl that I am, I would never have thought to put these two together...
She was bad person. She must be. There could be no other explanation for it...
The weak light spilling through the half-closed bathroom door glinted off polished metal and she gasped, shivering at the feel of cold steel wrapping around her wrist, a hard knee slipping between and parting her legs.
The first time had been an aberration; she'd been bound and gagged, robbed of control or free will, robbed of sight; the night a miasma of humiliation, anger and, to her great disgust, shameless wonton abandon.
That a man whom she had unflinchingly respected, then unreservedly loved, could inflict his distasteful whims on her, indulging the fantasies of his inappropriate and underage male lover at her expense, was an outrage worthy of her court marshal. (Preceded, as it naturally would be, by the non-regulation discharging of her firearm.)
But something had happened that she could never have predicted.
Overwhelmed by them both, she'd been taken aback by the skillful touch and intimate knowledge of the one and the youthful curiosity and stamina of the other. Betrayed by her body, by a longing she'd been unaware she possessed, she'd somehow become a willing participant.
She'd awoken hours later with the sun high in the sky, unbound and still utterly, utterly spent, to find a hastily written note in the Colonel's elegant scrawl bestowing an unprecedented day-off upon her.
And as she sat cross-legged amongst the rumpled bedclothes, Hayate (who had clearly been fed and walked) curled at her feet, she felt not anger, nor surprise, nor even a burning need for retribution.
What she felt was...
Not for the Colonel; he had crossed an unforgivable line and she would find a way to deal with him later.
She'd felt herself flush, at once ashamed to the core, but she had suddenly, utterly understood.
She'd understood what had driven the Colonel to break with her, to leave her not for another woman, not for another man, but for a boy.
And not just any boy. This boy.
This beautiful, willful, golden boy.
Said boy was currently pulling at her half-unbuttoned uniform jacket, lips and tongue at her throat, his own need insistent, pressed against her thigh.
Overcome by a wave of sheer lust, fingers buried deep in golden silk, she used her body as leverage and spun him back against the wall.
He was laughing, helpless and appreciative, as she sought out his wanton mouth, and rubbed herself against his smooth, hard, perfect body.
With a breathless whispered cry, she spelled out not only the salvation, the spark (pun intended), that she had been searching for, but her doom.