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There are times, Riza reflects, when knowing Roy Mustang down into the very core of his being is a pain in the ass. But there are also times when it’s not.
This being one of them.
He’s been in that mood all day. The mood that most people would interpret as “I am superior to everyone around me and they should really stop bothering me with their inane problems immediately,” but that really means “I am the worst human being alive and completely incapable of dealing with all of these people’s problems, so they should really stop bothering me immediately.” She’s become intimately familiar with it, over the years. Which is for the best, because she is also intimately familiar with the solution.
Intimately being the operative word here. It's not the only solution to his sour mood, obviously, but it's undeniably her favourite.
She ushers the men out of the office, sending them out for an impromptu lunch break. They’re loyal to a fault — she can hear them as they head down the hall, laughing loudly about the smackdown she’s undoubtedly about to lay on their colonel. Not for a moment do they even consider any other possibility, or if they do, they hide it extremely well.
She locks the door.
“Colonel,” she says, turning slowly to face him. He’s leaning back against his desk, his arms crossed, scowling at her. “Please, sit down.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but she interrupts him. “Sir. Please sit down.”
Her tone is perfectly even. She watches, distantly, the way he shifts minutely, the way his eyes darken. She waits. Finally, he stands with a huff, and moves around his desk to his chair.
Without a second look his way, she moves to her own desk. The lowest drawer is locked, as it always is, despite the occasional attempt by Havoc. The key hangs around her neck at all times, next to her dog tags. Now, she unlocks the drawer. Pulls out a pair of handcuffs.
She can’t see him, but she can imagine the way Roy must gulp. It brings a tiny smirk to her face.
She turns back around, grabbing his gaze with her own instantly, and holds it as she approaches his desk. He’s turned his chair sideways to the desk to watch her, and she waits until she’s directly in front of him, until he’s craning his neck to continue meeting her eyes, before she speaks. All she says is, “Sir, your permission?”
He starts to speak, but it catches in his throat and he has to cough first. Then, hoarsely: “Granted, lieutenant.”
She walks behind him at a slow, measured pace, handcuffs dangling from one hand. When she attaches them around his wrists, she makes sure to be gentle. The point isn’t pain. Roy can flagellate himself enough for the both of them.
She comes back around, deliberately not allowing him to catch her eye. For a moment, she just stands there, perfectly still, enjoying the picture he makes — uniform already rumpled, arms pulled back, chest rising and falling quickly. His hair is a little too artfully rumpled, so she reaches out, runs her fingers through it until it falls into his eyes in a more natural way.
“Good,” is all she says, then she settles herself down, straddling his thighs. With steady fingers, she unbuttons his jacket, letting the sides fall open. The white button-up is next. She takes her time, pressing in close so that her hair tickles his jaw, so that her every exhale warms his neck as she looks down at her work. His breath hitches.
When the shirt is hanging open against his chest, she lifts her head, meeting his eyes. Leaning in slowly, she presses a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. Bites at his bottom lip. Runs her hand down his bare chest from his collarbone to the fine hairs at his navel, and lower —
“Riza,” he says, and it comes out like it’s been torn from him, raspy and sharp. She pulls away entirely, frowns, then smiles gently.
“I think you’ve done enough talking for today, Colonel,” and she brings her hand back to the ties of his pants, undoes them with a few quick motions. “Let me take care of the rest.”
He makes a noise that’s not unlike a whimper, but cuts himself off. She smiles again. “That’s good, sir. That’s good.” She slips her hand into his pants, still holding his eyes with her own.
She leans in and kisses him, thoroughly, as she gives him two firm strokes. It’s slightly wrong, though — he’s hard, yes, but the rasp of her hand against him isn’t ideal, although from the way his hips press up into it she can safely say he doesn’t mind much. But she’s got a better idea.
Riza brusquely retracts her hand, and with a final kiss, pulls away entirely. He opens his mouth to question her, but then frowns and shuts it. For someone planning a rebellion, he’s really very good at following orders.
Further proof: when she raises her palm to his mouth and says, firmly, “lick,” he does. And while her number one priority right now is to make him feel good, she really can’t help the way she starts to shift in his lap, trying to get some friction on the sudden heat between her legs, as he slowly drags his tongue up her palm, watching her for a reaction the whole time through the gaps between her fingers.
With a great effort of will, she keeps her face smooth. She resolutely does not blush. Instead, she says, “Very good, sir,” and brings her hand back down to his cock. When she gives it an experimental stroke, this time, it slides smoothly against her palm. Perfect.
She leans up close to him again, and presses kisses along the side of his neck as she begins to work at him, setting a steady pace. Sucking at the curve of his Adam’s apple, she can taste each hitch in his breathing, each whine he swallows back. He may be nearly fully clothed, but to her he is naked — there is nothing he can hide from her, not the needy cant of his hips or the sweat sliding slowly down towards his clavicle or the way he bites his lip to hold in the moans.
She twists her wrist just so, and revels in the way he holds his silence, all because she told him to.
She speaks into his ear, holding her tone steady and low. “The only time you are allowed to make any noise, sir, is when you’re about to come. Because you are going to tell me so. Because I want to see your face when you do.” She nips at his earlobe. “Nod if you can do this.”
She feels him jerk his head roughly. Good enough for her.
She sighs, quickening her pace ever so slightly. Her free hand, she slides down his chest from where it’s resting on his shoulder to his nipple, and she rolls it between her fingers softly. Roy quakes below her, his head falling back and his spine arching. He looks so damned perfect with his arms straining and tugging against their restraints. Her handcuffs are military-grade, though, and they hold until Roy drops his head to his chest, panting. He looks up at her through his bangs with dark eyes. She smiles, and tugs at his nipple for good measure. The shudder that runs through his body presses his thigh up into the crease between her legs, and she bites her lip, fighting the impulse to press down into it.
She releases his nipple to grip his chin, pulling him into a kiss. She swipes her thumb over the head of his cock, down the length of it, and feels the heat of it against her stomach. She winds her free hand into the sweaty hair at the base of his neck. It’s the perfect length for tugging, and she uses it to tip his head back even further to trail biting kisses down his neck as she wraps her fingers around his cock fully again and begins to work him faster.
His skin tastes of salt and she drags her tongue roughly up his neck, wanting to taste more of it. He’s writhing beneath her, hips pumping into her hand and chest arching into her, but she’s steady as a rock with her feet planted on the floor, keeping him grounded. She’s a bit of an expert at that.
“See how good this can be, Colonel,” she says, raising her voice so he can hear her, if he’s even listening, if he can focus on anything but the feel of her hand and her lips and her weight and heat against his thighs. “See how good I can make you feel?”
Her forearm is beginning to ache, but she doesn’t slow. She’d be a damned poor sniper if her arms gave out on her at the slightest bit of physical labour. “I love that you can be like this,” she says, pressing a rough kiss to his neck, just below his ear. “I love that you trust me to do this.”
It’s the closest she dares to come to saying what she really means, but it’s enough. She feels him tense and arch beneath her, and he chokes out, “Lieutenant—”
She releases her hold on his hair, and he raises his head to meet her gaze with eyes that are wide and glazed. She raises her free hand to his nipple and gives it a sharp tug, and his face contorts, his hips slam up, and he’s coming into her hand with a hoarse groan as she watches. Without even thinking about it, she releases his nipple and lowers her hand to her crotch, rubbing at herself roughly through her uniform pants. She’s wound so tight already that it only takes a few seconds for her to come; he looks up at her with eyes that are dazed with awe and gratitude and — she clenches her eyes shut and comes with a low whine, her hips pressing down hard into her palm and her whole body shuddering. Her head falls to his shoulder as the waves tear through her.
After a few moments of mutually laboured breathing, Roy chuckles softly, and she can't help but join. He's unbearably warm beneath her. Eventually, she sits up straight again, enjoying the new looseness in her muscles. When she meets his eyes, Roy smiles at her.
“Good?” she says, raising her eyebrows.
He laughs. “Fishing for compliments is beneath you, Lieutenant Hawkeye.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says, getting slowly to her feet. “Feel like you can interact normally with human beings now?”
Looking down at himself, he frowns. “Maybe not right away,” he says, nodding at the mess on his stomach. “Plausible deniability is only plausible so long as the men haven’t actually seen anything.”
She moves behind him on still-unsteady legs to unlock the handcuffs. “Well, I guess in that case you should probably make use of the towel in my drawer first. We wouldn't want to test the limits of plausible deniability. Falman can't lie worth a damn, sir.”
He chuckles, stretching his arms to work out the kinks. Riza fetches the towel for him, and helps him clean up. That done, they fix their uniforms, doing up buttons and straightening lapels and generally destroying the evidence.
Finally: “How do I look?” says Roy, sprawling back down into his chair and grabbing a file at random off his desk to flip through lazily.
“Like someone who definitely hasn’t just had an illicit tryst with his subordinate, sir.”
He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Very good, lieutenant."
She gives him a pitch-perfect salute, and returns to her own desk. The others will be back soon. Not to mention, of course, that there's still work — actual work — to be completed before the day is out. And whatever other spectacular things sex may do for Roy Mustang's mood, it doesn't improve his procrastination habit at all.